Blog of the Dead
by Banm
Summary: LegendLuigi91 used to blog every day, much to the delight of his loving audience. But when the infection hit his viewers were reduced to 0. He still blogs of course, but instead of memes and youtube he now focuses on the walking corpses trying to eat him
1. 26082011

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 2608/2011  
>Subject: SHIT THE BED<strong>

I'm fucked. You're fucked. Everybody's fucked. I'm not the news-watching type of guy but THE SHIT HAS HIT THE FAN. And by SHIT I mean Zombies. And by FAN I mean the entire fucking continent.

It started normally enough. Thousands of unlucky tourists came down with a bad case of chronic diarrhoea from digesting some dodgy cucumbers in the south of Spain, or at least that's what the press was telling us. The tummy rumbles eventually became the last of the poor bugger's problems when their bodies decomposed and shut down. This was pretty bad for Spain, knowing that they had a box of killer cucumbers lying around somewhere, but it was also bad for the rest of Europe when body bags in hospitals everywhere started bursting open and giving birth to flesh eating zombies. Some of which still smelt like cucumber induced diarrhoea.

This was a month ago, the first week was a bit of a mess. Every news channel was saying something different, twitter blew up with various B-List celebrities complaining about the legion of dead people stomping around in their gardens and eating their children. Internet forums were dismissing the cucumber theory as a cover up story for something much for diabolical. But before anyone could come up with a logical conclusion, the internet was fried.

Within days the infection hit Britain. The people in charge tried to prevent it by closing the airports and docks and shutting down the Eurotunnel but it was too little, too late. The disease managed to squeeze its way into the United Kingdom, tainting a huge chunk of the population. The merest signs of illness would mean your door being knocked down and a group of masked men wheeling you away to die in the comfort of a quarantined hospital bed, amongst thousands of others.

It worked for a day or two, but you can't monitor everybody. Eventually someone caught the cucumber bug and tried to fight, and failed. They then proceeded to shit their pants and turn into rampaging zombies.

The police forces managing the cities were easily overwhelmed. The first zombie infects two people, those two zombies infect two other. And so on, and so on. The army was called in and told to shoot anything without a working brain. Soon it became hard to differentiate between a zombie and a classic reprobate. Mistakes were made and innocents were shot on sight. Riots began. Supermarkets and other stores were raided and picked clean. The government fell apart and with it the military. The leaders of Britain had diminished into a group of unlucky public speakers who didn't know their asses from their elbows.

So the country has gone to shit, closely followed by the majority of Europe. The population was estimated at roughly 60% Zombie and 40% desperate, starving homosapien. I'm in the 40%, only because I'm holed up in a student flat where the kitchen is already stocked with tinned goods and microwave meals, all of which are non perishable and will last us weeks. I'm here with my flat mate Mo (Short for Muhammad), who spends all day practicing with his nun chucks for the morning that the dead break our door down. Some would say we got off easy, but the guy sweats like a wildebeest and the flat is quickly becoming filled with the pungent smell of unwashed man.

Every now and then there will be a scrape at the door followed by a grunt or two. We're pretty sensible when it comes to avoiding giving away our position. We've unscrewed all the light bulbs and filled the bath tub with water, just like the survival guide told us too (Helpfully broadcasted by the BBC). We have a cup of bath water a day to keep us hydrated. We ran out of diet Pepsi two days ago. Things have been tense since then.

The radio is telling me that the electricity will run out any day due to the zombie workers losing interest in maintaining it. Me and Mo have searched the entire flat for batteries and managed to scrape together a six pack of AA's and a single AAA. Pretty tragic, I know.

All in all the future is looking rather bleak. My blog viewers have reduced to 0 since the outbreak. I guess your all too busy eating each other. (Not in the good way).

Until next time.

Peace out; Rock on; Love your mothers.


	2. 28082011

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 2808/2011  
>Subject: 48 Hours Later<strong>

It happened. Our electricity winked out of existence last night, right in the middle of Ice Age 2. One moment I was lost in the wonders of animated pre-historic glee, the next I was sitting in the dark, quite alone and realising with despair that I would now never know if Scrat gets the acorn.

My depression led me to typing an entire blog post of rambling,disjointed thoughts, focusing on how gloomy my life had become since all my friends had become numb to the world in their state of near death. No longer could I be cheered up with a few rounds of beer pong, or a lengthy session of gaming goodness. And that wasn't the worst part of the day, soon after I found out that we were out of cheerio's.

Unfortunately, my laptop battery died mid-way through my chronicling. At this point I was dangerously close to strangling myself with my room mates nunchucks.

So I am now risking the precious battery life of my mobile phone (36% battery remaining.) to write up this blog. I'd originally powered down my phone, promising only to use it in an emergency, or to keep my Angry Bird skills sharp. But for me, not blogging is a slow and certain road to insanity, and one I am hoping to avoid.

Firstly I had to listen to twelve voice mails from my recently expunged girlfriend. They varied from distraught panic, to tempting naughtiness and then finally ending with a spine tingling moan of horror. I'm quite sure she has officially been zombified. That or she's watching Twilight.

Late yesterday evening, a full hour after the power outage bitch-slapped our microwave, Mo went into Bob-the-Builder mode and started fortifying our little flat. His first notion was to volunteer me to take a peak past our front door. He described it as just a quick check to see what kind of company we had reeled in. During the half-second that the door was unlocked and opened I counted two of the things, stood like statues at the end of hall and emitting guttural moans. I closed the door as quickly and quietly as I could while simultaneously clenching my bowels in an effort to not piss my pants. It took a while to get the image of their vacant, dead faces out of my head, seeing video footage of the creatures on my television hadn't fully prepared me for the very real and horrific danger they created. In fact, for the last month I had been childishly hoping that the whole frightening situation had just been over exaggerated by the media.

I was supremely incorrect. Shit was real. Shit was _very_ real.

Mo began his crusade by nailing the windows shut. Although his dedication was admirable, I had to eventually point out that those very windows were the only relatively safe escape route we had if our door was compromised. This and the bubbling tension that hovered in all corners of our apartment eventually led us into a miniature argument, which swiftly ended with me sporting a bruised rib from a devastating and unforeseen nunchuck throw.

The main door to the flat received the truest form of anti-zombie protection, and by that I mean the push-lots-of-heavy-things-in-front-of-it treatment. Unfortunately this meant that we're now sitting on deflated, old pillows instead of our comfortable leather sofa. And we are watching a clock tick teasingly by instead of watching our beloved wide-screen television. Sure, it no longer had power, but that didn't mean Mo had to use it as a forty inch barricade.

Somehow I wound up cleaning the refrigerator, something that happened perhaps once a month, if the fridge was lucky. I discovered some seriously bad smelling food products in the darker regions that had been reduced to bags of greyish-green mould thanks to our student-like negligence. These I quickly dispatched through the un-nailed kitchen window, along with a few ancient boxes of pizza crusts that Mo kept for feeding the neighbours cat.

On the subject of food, Mo had taken it upon himself to do a stock check of what remaining supplies we had. He was never good at Math, so after his third try at calculator aided counting, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

It didn't take long. Four tins of soup. Fuck.

It didn't help matters that one of the tins was Ox-Tail flavour. Seriously, who wants to eat _tail_? I had another dig around, and found nothing but a dusty cereal bar, which Mo quickly called dibs on, the son of a bitch. I'd assumed that the food situation was under control, but that couldn't be further from the truth. We needed to replenish our cupboards, or we wouldn't last another week.

On the up side, our stagnant bath water is lasting well, thanks to the strongly enforced rationing rule. Having a lot of water was nice, but it wasn't quite the student-fuel that me and Mo were used to. Pasta, noodles and tinned beans. Those were things we needed to survive, and after a brief discussion, it was decided that tomorrow morning we would count our lucky pennies and venture out into the tower block to find supplies.

I'll try and post another update tomorrow, but if I don't, then assume the worst: that I failed in my mission to procure nourishment and I am now deceased.

Or my battery has run out.

Peace out. Rock on. Eat your vitamins.


	3. 30082011

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 3008/2011  
>Subject: No Quarter<strong>

We managed to half our food supply down to two cans after the breakfast banquet. Since the microwave (like all our other electrical appliances) isn't working, I dug out my old camping hexi-stove and heated up the chicken and mushroom goop in my battered mess tin from my short stint as a scout leader. I like to think a cup of water and a tin of partially warmed soup is a good way to start the day.

Mo was pretty intrigued by my camping stove and interrogated me about what other gear I had stowed away in my closet. It was a fair question; I used to go for weekend long hiking trips in Wales and had a pretty wide scope of gear. I made a mental note to take a stock check later. Damn, that almost sounded like I knew what I was doing.

It took about an hour of deep meditation and mental preparation to man myself up for the task ahead. We needed food, and fast. Not fast food, well, any food would do but-

You get the point. In a time like this, when our next-door neighbors enjoyed a plate of raw man-meat with their veggies, survival was absolutely critical. And to survive we need F-

Weapons. Mo brought it up whilst I was giving the pep talk you just read above. I hadn't even considered this, I was ready to charge out into the lobby with nothing but the pack of dental floss I keep in my back pocket, who am I going to kill with that? Tooth decay? I don't think so. If a lifetime of watching zombie movies had taught me anything, it's that a shotgun was all you needed for de-braining zombies.

Which would have been fantastic if I didn't live in England, where you're more likely to sprout a third testicle than find a shotgun in an urban City. Instead I opted for the far less threatening but slightly more subtle snooker cue. We didn't actually have a snooker table, but we found the cue in a charity shop several months back and had been using it to change the channel on the telly when we lost the remote. It would be sad to crack such a useful tool over the head of a deserving zombie, but in this sick, fucked up world, sacrifices had to be made.

Armed with a pool cue (Sharpened a few minutes earlier with a kitchen knife), my wits and the hammer I planned on using to break the locks on our neighbors doors, I patiently waited for Mo to gear up in his bedroom. I admit I started to worry when several minutes had passed and there was no sign of him; I figured he'd either hung himself with my dental floss, or was enjoying a pre-battle self massage.

I needn't had fret however, as several seconds later the door swung open to reveal a very fucked up Power Ranger. Mo had swapped his training nun chucks for a pair of solid steel ones. He was also wearing a bad fitting studded leather jacket and a visor-less motorcycle helmet. I said he looked like a Hells Angel's bottom bitch and received a stinging nun chuck to the kneecap.

After we were fully kitted out in anti-zombie gear we got to work at dragging the sofa out of the way of the front door. We made quite the racket and I feared for a second that we might have drawn some unwanted attention with the noise. Myself and Mo approached our front door carefully, ready to pillage the closest flat. Standing at the door I almost bottled it and ran back to my bed before remembering that my only other option was starving to death.

I burst through the front door at speed and almost soiled myself when I cannoned straight into a large briefcase someone had left there. Mo checked it for any useful items and found only girls clothes. I gave the luggage case a poke with my sharpened stick for wronging me.

We couldn't see or hear any of the zombies that had been playing twister a few nights ago, so we headed straight for the apartment across from us. As expected it was locked, so I knocked twice, just to be polite. Turned out that it was a good idea - a split second after I knocked someone, or something, responded with a loud thud.

Me and Mo gave each other a look. I tried to hand him the hammer to break the lock but he just poked me in the ribs with his nunchuck and gave me his well practiced You-Go-First frown. I took a deep, calming breath and lifted the tool, blinking away a bead of sweat that had decided to trickle down my face. I smashed the handle with all my might. It was a devastating blow, knocking the knob off of the door and causing the lock to cave in on itself. I was almost pleased with myself, until the door swung open.

The smell hit me first; if you've ever sniffed a barrel full of disassembled human corpses then you might have a rough idea of what zombies smell like. If not then there's plenty of zombies to smell around here, so feel free. After wiping the stench induced tears from my eyes, I finally saw the zombies. That's right; ZOMBIES. Not 'infected' or 'casualties'. Not a 'walker' or a 'carrier'. I'm a twenty-something college slacker. I didn't share the older generation's ignorance when it came to this sort of thing. Where they saw a tragic victim of human error, I saw a plain as day dead person. Risen up for god knows what reason. Disease or apocalypse, you tell me. I'd seen the flicks, read the books, played the games, bought the t-shirt and ate the omelette. Unlike the public speakers and news reporters, I'm not afraid to say that these things were zombies.

Three zombies, all of varying sizes. They began shuffling towards us at a snail's pace, giving us about ten seconds to decide what to do. The problem was we used the full ten seconds to revel in horror of the three uglies as they shambled towards us, flailing their limbs wildly and licking the crusted blood from their lips. It was quite the sight. I would have snapped a quick picture on my phone if it wasn't for the depleting battery and the three zombies within an arm's reach of my glorious, warm blooded body.

I'd like to say that I jumped into action, handing out kung-fu-kicks like they were pennies. But the truth is I was paralyzed with fear. Cold, hard fear. One of the zombies reached out to grab a hold of my face and I just gaped at it, wide eyed, taking notes of the peeling, blistering flesh that wrapped itself around this monsters skinny fingers. I almost wet myself in shock when a nunchuck, sent by god himself, swatted the hand away from my face. The fear subsided slightly and replaced itself with an unimaginable burst of adrenaline. I looked at Mo and he belted out a war cry that would put most death metal vocalists to shame.

We sprung into action, driven by pure instinct and will to send these creatures back to hell... again. It was over in a few seconds, which actually felt like minutes. I thank my lucky belt buckle that these Zombies were less 28-Days-Later-Going-To-Fucking-Brutalize-You and more Romero-Slow-And-Easily-Avoidable. The tip of my pool cue had been stained blood red in the melee, I had mainly used it as a stabbing tool whilst Mo ninja flipped around the bastards, caving in their skulls with his steel nunchucks.

I wanted to smile. After all, I had defeated my enemies and conquered Flat 7B, there was plenty of booty to plunder. But instead I bent over and emptied my guts on the floor. My vomit mingled with the brain matter from my deceased zombie neighbors, creating the world's worst cocktail. I wretched until I could spew no more. The lovely soup that I knew, loved and consumed was now splattered onto the carpet like a weird gallery of gore. Mo gave me one of his 'Toughen up, pansy.' looks. He's one hardcore son-of-a-zombie-bitch.

So with our adrenaline fading away into nothingness and my stomach completely empty of my morning breakfast, we began to dig in. The place was a goldmine without the gold. I figured as long as we lived in a block of student flats, we'll never be without tinned soup and instant noodles. Mo opened up a duffel bag in the middle of the lounge and began throwing the goods into it from the kitchen. I decided to have a look around the place. I snatched a bottle of whisky from the first bedroom and a Zippo lighter, some lighter fuel and a bag of Doritos from the second. In the third bedroom I was having a root through a set of drawers when something moved out of the corner of my eye.

My first thought was: ZOMBIE. FUCK. It's only natural. But as I twirled around, pool cue in front of me, there was nothing stirring. Not even a zombie mouse. I breathed a sigh of relief before-

Oh shit. The bed cover moved. It was a small movement but enough to freak the shit out of me. There was something dead under there still moving and I knew I had to put the bastard down. A thousand ways to dispatch an angry dead man ran through my mind, most of them included calling for Mo to do it instead of me. But he was busy foraging for berries and let's be honest, how difficult is it to kill a sleeping zombie anyway? As I got closer I could make out the shuffling sound from the lump underneath the bed cover. I held my sharpened pool cue high, ready to impale the Z with all of my strength but-

The cover exploded upwards and the figure beneath charged me. It was faster than the zombies from the lounge. I figuratively dropped a big one in my panties and reversed back, swinging my cue like a possessed pool player. But the thing about a pool cue is... It's a freakin' pool cue and before I knew it the zombie had ploughed through my offense and struck with his own. A pain sizzled across my stomach like none other I had felt before (And I've been electrocuted). My life flashed before my eyes; From sailing kayaks with my former care worker all the way to being thrown into oncoming traffic as a drunken prank by my old school friend.

Me and Stabby McZombieface fell over in a heap and I let my survival instincts kick in. Unfortunately they were screaming 'You're going to die!' over and over again in my head. I somehow made it to my feet and stumbled to the door, only to see Mo charge in with his nunchucks swinging over his head. It was fucking glorious; I swear the heavens opened up behind him to shine a blinding light around my savior. The next thing I remember seeing is a misjudged swing from my former friend Mo, who sent the hardened, blunt steel flying towards my skull. And well...That's pretty much it.

Until I woke up with two faces-

Shit... 3% Battery remaining, I better find my charger.


	4. 30082011 Part 2

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 3008/2011 Part 2  
>Subject: Dazed and Confused<strong>

I don't know what it feels like to be stabbed. And thank fuck for that. But I did just find out what it feels like to be sliced open by a jumpy Computing Student who thought that I was a walking dead man that enjoyed the occasional game of pool. It's almost understandable.

Now where was I? Oh yeah. FUCK ME, THERE'S A HOLE IN MY ABDOMEN.

I screamed this until Mo managed to duct tape my mouth shut. He and my attacker (More on that idiot later) were half way through the improvised surgery when I woke up. Now, when I wake up, I prefer to be sprawled across a comfortable mattress in my PJ's with nice cup of hot chocolate on the table next to me.

Not thrown two feet from the group of zombies we had just killed with my favorite Metallica T-shirt ripped up showing the gaping wound in my stomach. If I had any vomit left in me, it would have been sprayed over the walls.

This was how I was introduced to Thomas Cottonwood, aspiring software developer and all around whiz-kid. Which means jack all in our current situation (Zombie Uprising). He was trying his best to apologize for opening me up with his concealed blade by stitching the wound with my own dental floss. Could this day get any worse? Yes it could. I passed out again.

This time when I woke up I felt the pain first hand, searing across my belly like a fire poker. Mo was close by eating some badly boiled noodles and helpfully shoved a handful of pain killers into my mouth. I swallowed them down like the trooper I am and then Mo actually showed some compassion by letting me take a sip from his water canteen. Just one sip.

I checked the damage; the oddjob stitching was covered up by a nifty bandage which had been wrapped around my torso. Then I noticed something odd.

'Why am I naked?' The strain of talking actually enhanced the pain shooting around my body.

Mo just shrugged. So I looked around for Thomas. He was sat in the corner, cross legged, pouring soup down his throat. There was a small chunk of carrot hanging from his month old prepubescent stubble.

He smiled and introduced himself. I made a mental note to cause him serious harm the next chance I got. It's only fair, right? He actually seemed a decent kid, struggling through University and forced to shack up with a bunch of idiots who all fell sick around the same time and eventually succumbed to Zombieism. There's a happy ending though, those zombies had their brains smashed in by me and Mo. Thomas had been locked in his bedroom for a week and a half with only the occasional gulp of rainwater to live on, he was damn lucky it was a typical British summer full of wind and rain. He openly admitted that at one point he had considered jumping from the window rather than starving to death. When he heard the commotion outside his door he grabbed a pair of scissors and dived into his bed, hoping for the best but expecting the worst.

We know what happens afterwards. Mo had the logical but questionable idea of making Thomas strip down to his undies to prove he was 100% human with no signs of infection. And in return Mo did the same. Then they figured they'd strip search me to make it fair, but they hadn't bothered to dress me again because I had this habit of bleeding everywhere. Assholes.

Thomas assured me that my cut was going to be just fine because he has watched a lot of Scrubs and knew about this sort of stuff. Mo grunted his approval. I wanted to argue but it hurt too much to talk. So instead I whipped out my phone and realized I was dangerously low on battery life. I wasn't sure how my brain could cope without my blogging, which was just about the only normal thing left in my life (Apart from eating and using the toilet). So eventually I hooked up our last battery with my EMERGENCY Battery phone charger that my ex-girlfriend had bought me a few summers ago. It was one of those thoughtfully devious gifts an obsessive girl gets her guy. From then on I wouldn't have an excuse to not answer her calls when I was away hiking.

It almost makes me glad she has a 40% chance (and dropping) of being a zombie. And if you think that's harsh, just remember she once snapped my Beach Boys vinyl in half. I know right? What a bitch.

And with that I'll let you guys get some sleep. We all need it. Lucky for us we now have supplies to last us at least a week, and there's always the dozens of other flats in the building. I have a feeling we're going to be just fine.

So remember fellow survivors; Peace out, rock on but most of alfk k33

FUCK. Dropped my phone. Hey, I'm high on painkillers, give me a break.

I'll be back with another update tomorrow.


	5. 02092011

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 0209/2011  
>Subject: Parade of the Dead<strong>

Two problems:

Problem 1: Dental Floss is a poor substitute for surgical suture.

Problem 2: Zombies.

Sure, you already knew about the whole zombie thing. I've covered that quite extensively over my last few posts. In fact the three of us have settled in quite well considering the situation (Fucked up.). Our last three days have been spent eating noodles, reminiscing about the good ol' days and playing angry birds. (Thomas had a healthy stash of batteries over in his dorm, originally intended for his Xbox controllers but I decided my iPhone was more deserving of their powerful juices.)

But last night something both glorious and horrifying happened. Two military helicopters flew right over us, effectively shitting on whatever uneasy truce we had going with the Undead. When we heard the choppers we jumped up and down with joy as if we had just witnessed a Katy Perry nip slip. (Well, Mo and Thomas did. I just sort of hopped around a little and hoped that my stitches hadn't ripped.)

What we forgot to do however was grab a torch and actually make our presence known like a group of sensible human beings might do. The jumping and cheering quickly came to a stop as the noise from the helicopters got further and further away. Our stupidity stunned us to silence, then Mo did the only logical thing and punched a wall.

We being complete fucking idiots had missed our first chance at getting the hell out of this cramped little city and to some kind of zombie proof evacuation outpost, if such a thing even existed. It was pretty clear that those choppers weren't coming back, so we played a couple of hands of poker to lighten the mood a little. Although it's pretty hard to lighten the mood when there's no electricity and the only actual light is a small fire we had burning in a saucepan courtesy of all 636 pages of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Hey! Goblet of FIRE. And we were burning it! Haha. It's genius.

I was sitting on a pretty kick ass hand (a Straight Flush. Booya!) when we heard the sound again. This time we used our previous experience of fucking everything up by charging into the kitchen where we kept our only flashlight. Mo grabbed it, switched it on and started waving it out the window like a Jedi with a pigeon problem as me and Thomas cheered him on.

This is how the zombies became a problem. And not an "Oh no! There's some zombies next door!" problem. This was an "Oh no! There's HUNDREDS OF FREAKIN' ZOMBIES RUNNING AFTER THOSE HELICOPTERS." problem. Which is far fucking worse.

Of course, Zombies don't run. They walk. Well... They sort of shamble, kind of. You know what I mean.

This time the sound wasn't coming from a Helicopter, it was coming from the Zombie Parade charging after them. Even in the darkness I could make out hundreds of them shuffling along the streets whilst giving the Helicopters the one finger salute (To be honest most of them only had one finger anyway). I could of easily pissed myself right then but helpfully the constant pain from my knife wound had me clenching all of the muscles around that area.

The situation quickly went from the You're-Kind-Of-Fucked territory straight into the You're-Completely-Fucked zone. The only thing that could have made this any worse was if Mo was hanging out of the window with a flashlight waving it around like a giant advertisement for three large portions of fresh meat.

Oh shit.

I grabbed Mo around the waist and judo threw him to the floor. He either hadn't realized the whole predicament or just didn't appreciate being man handled because he replied by throwing the flashlight at my forehead. I slid onto the floor in pain from both my skull and my stomach.

Thomas had a quick peek out of the window. 'I think they spotted us.' is all he managed to say. Thanks for your input Thomas.

Mo looked from me to the window, and then back to me. And then to the window again. Then the colour drained from his face as he realized what a complete twat he had been. He gave the flashlight a dirty look and charged out of the room. No doubt to change into ass-kicking mode.

Thomas hit the nail right on the head. The Zombies had the intelligence of a baked potato but they could still do simple mathematics such as: Noise + Lights = Potential Flesh.

I could also do simple mathematics such as: Zombie x 500 = ONE HUNDED THOUSAND ZOMBIES. Or close to that. The majority of which were marching straight towards our precious window. If they managed to surround us (And it's fairly easy to surround a square building) then we were pretty much fucked. We were three stories high, so jumping from the window wasn't our favorite option. And my knife wound prevented me from abseiling, because I could totally do that. Damn you knife wound!

I'm thinking we have five minutes at the most before the first wave of Zombies kicks down our front door, if it's even still on its hinges. That leaves us three minutes to pack our bags, one minute to think of a plan and another minute to execute it.

Or execute some Zombies.

Or be executed by Zombies.

Either way, things aren't looking too peachy.

I'll say my goodbyes for now, if I can I'll post another blog when we put some distance between us and the undead assholes.

Luigi out.


	6. 03092011

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 03092011  
>Subject: Over and Hills and Far Away<strong>

Today has been a long day. But we survived, kind of. Here's what happened:

The first floor had been lost to the Zombie swarm. And we knew it was only a matter of time before they re-learnt how to use the stairs.

The undead had thrown down the gauntlet and we were answering with blind panic. Mo was stuffing his backpack with nunchucks, noodles and napkins. I was dusting off my old, ragged rucksack which was already stocked full with kit in case I ever wanted an emergency getaway from my studies. Except this time I wasn't running from responsibility, I was running from reanimated corpses with the munchies.

Thomas didn't have a bag, so I sent him off into the lobby to grab the pink suitcase I'd tripped over a few days before. We rendezvoused in my bedroom to distribute whatever supplies we had left. Our bath tub was still going strong at about 75% full. Water had been cut off not long after the Fucking-Of-The-World as we like to call it, but rationing it seemed to be the only thing we were good at. Obviously carrying a bathtub would be a bit of a challenge so we decided carrying a liter each between us would have to do for now.

Thomas kindly emptied the luggage case all over my floor, covering it in girls' clothing. Usually girl's clothes on my bedroom floor would mean that there was a naked lady close by, not this time. Fuck you world.

I zipped up my fully stocked rucksack and hefted it. Pretty weighty, it would put a strain on my cut but I wasn't one to bitch. Well I was, but right now we had more important things to bitch about. Like zombies and taxes and stuff. Thomas began emptying the side pockets on the case, throwing all sorts of girly accessories at me. Lipsticks, fake nails and...

I plucked a little gadget out of the pile and held out it up for Thomas to see. It was one of those personal attack alarms. Thomas looked a bit frightened at both the rape alarm and my mischievous smile. I had a plan. No, I wasn't going to sexually assault Thomas; I was going to make one hell of a distraction. At that precise moment Mo walked up to my bedroom door and frowned at us knelt in amongst a pile of girls clothing, I don't blame him.

I managed to build the world's worst slingshot out of three butter knives, some rubber tubing and a shit load of duct tape. It was crude, cheap and pointy. Just how I like my women. Our plan was to sneak down to the second floor where there was a fire escape (People living on the third floor were just expected to burn quietly). We had our respective weapons on hand to fight off any of the intelligent Zombies who managed to make it to the second floor (Mo = Nunchuck, Me = Pool Cue, Thomas = Hammer). Once at the fire escape, things were going to get loud.

I locked the door behind us with the hope that one day I might make it back to the place I had lived for the last two years. I'm optimistic like that. The smell from Thomas' dorm brought tears to my eyes and vomit to my throat, Thomas pulled his jacket up over his nose and popped into his flat. He came out a second later swinging some car keys around his finger. A little gift from his former flat mate.

On the second floor we hit our first hitch. It was big, wide and had its face buried in the corpse of a young woman. I recognized what was left of her face from around campus and had to stop myself from rushing over there and crushing the Zombies skull with my boot. I took a deep breath to calm myself. Then I thought 'Fuck it' and did it anyway. Mo joined in. I like to think we really bonded in those five or six seconds. What we didn't expect was for the Zombie to groan at the top of its lungs when we beat the shit out of it. Now, I don't speak Zombie but judging by the horde of footsteps stampeding up the stairway, I'm quite sure he said something along the lines of: "Some fuckers are caving my skull in with inanimate objects, and they smell fucking tasty!"

We legged it. Mo reached the fire escape first and tornado kicked it open. We all piled through and I whipped out the Super-Awesome-Slingshot-5000 and made ready for action. Thomas already had the alarm out, he squeezed his eyes shut and switched it on.

And nothing happened.

The damn thing had no batteries, what kind of women doesn't keep her attack alarm loaded at all times? I dropped my rucksack and ripped open the front pocket just as the first line of zombies fell into the fire exit door.

Mo reacted quicker than my eyes could follow, he slammed his back against the door as it opened and put his feet against the railing in front of us to brace against the weight of a dozen angry zombies. This man has balls of steel I tell you. I pulled out my sandwich bag full of batteries and tossed Thomas two of my best Duracell's - I wasn't taking any chances. Since I wasn't a rapist, I wasn't familiar with the ear splitting shriek that followed. I was only too happy to send the thing sailing two hundred meters up the street. I loaded the thing, took aim and pulled back on the rubber tube like a post-apocalyptic Robin Hood.

The band snapped in two as I yanked it back and the alarm fell between my fingers. I watched it spiral through the air in slow motion, falling down towards the grated metal and the waiting Zombie legion beneath it, no doubt sealing our fate as human hamburgers. My foot reacted before my mind had a chance, whipping out and punting the thing as hard as it could. The alarm propelled over the surrounding buildings and into the unknown, taking with it the attention of the Zombies that surrounded us. Me and Thomas breathed a sigh of relief as they began to shuffle away after the noise. Mo, however, crumpled to the floor as the weight behind him became too much. I dragged him to his feet as Thomas rushed down the metal steps, taking them four at a time. We followed at speed, not feeling compelled to introduce ourselves to the Zombiesons.

We jumped the last set of stairs, landing amongst the remnants of the zombie horde that were still looking for the source of noise. The stragglers lunged for us, arms outstretched. I took the first one straight through the eye with Mr. Pool Cue. The thrust reignited the pain in my gut and I felt the dental floss struggling to hold my cut together. To my left Mo put another out of its misery with repeated blasts from his deadly nunchucks. We retreated out of the alley and into the empty city.

For a second I was shocked. I lived on the edge of one of the City's main roads. At every hour of the day this place was alive with lights and laughter. Now it was just as dead as its population. Mo tugged me in the direction of the student parking spaces and we set off at a sprint, dodging out of the reach of the occasional zombie. It was around this time that I should have realized the alarm (Only thing keeping us alive) had stopped screeching. We turned another and corner and...

Fuck. Right into the horde. They'd found our clever gadget, destroyed it and realized that it tasted like shit. Then they had simply turned around and marched straight back towards us. We took a moment to stare into the abyss, then we got our shit together and backtracked. Straight into the other zombies we had just sprinted past. These fuckers were persistent, that's for sure. Mo began breaking faces with his nunchucks to make an opening before they surrounded us and we somehow managed to squeeze through - without Thomas.

I couldn't even see him through the mass of decomposed bodies. Mo shouted his name but there was no reply, things weren't looking good. Then a pair of car keys flew through the air, landing a few feet behind me. I was a little confused.

'Follow me you ugly c###s!' Ah, there was Thomas. I couldn't see him but I figured he was running for his life as his profanity came from further and further away. The zombies seemed to take offense at being called ugly and gave chase. Mo grabbed the keys and tossed them at me (He can't drive) and we took the long way to the car park as fast as I could manage without putting too much strain on my injury.

We reached the car park in minutes and I looked at the keys. Fuck yeah! The guy owned a Subaru. Mo found it first and my hard on vanished. It was a banged up 1997 hatchback, not the sleek car I was expecting. But a car was a car and we hopped in after stashing our kit in the backseat. We'd decided on the way here that there was no chance we were leaving little Thomas behind. I gunned it back to where we'd lost him and followed the carnage to the Horde. They were certainly chasing something or somebody. I palm thrusted the horn. Getting the attention of anything within half a mile. The horde turned at once and gave us one big angry glare. I took it as my cue to shift into reverse and get the fuck out of there, much to Mo's approval. I took it slow around the first corner, beeping the horn like a mad man. When I was sure I had given Thomas (Hopefully still alive) enough space to take a breather, I put some distance between us and the zombies before taking a detour back to where we originally split.

It didn't take long to find him. He was slumped against a lamp post with a couple of dead (properly dead, not walking dead) corpses around him. I admit, I didn't think the scrawny bastard had it in him. Mo jumped out and pretty much threw him into the backseat. He'd lost his luggage case in the fracas.

We had a half tank of petrol, more than enough to get us out of the City, which was pretty much a hive for Zombies at this point. We don't know where we're headed but at least we have options. And a little food and water.

We've been on the road for thirty minutes. Heading south for the meanwhile. We decided not to use the lights so we won't attract any unwanted attention. Mo's been playing with the radio but so far it's been completely silent.

I miss my flat.

I'm a bit worried about Thomas. He got covered in a bucket load of blood when he was bashing brains in. He hasn't been bitten or anything but we don't really know what causes this shit to spread. I'll be keeping an eye on him.

That's all to report for now. No other signs of human life. I'll throw up another update in about 24 hours.

Luigi out.


	7. 05092011

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 0509/2011  
>Subject: For Your Life<strong>

I don't feel up to wading through countless typo's and autocorrect right now.

But hell, I got nothing better to do.

You'll be happy to know (Unless you're a zombie. But then zombies can't read. Or can they? I'll have to forward that to our research division. Right after we make a research division.) that the three of us are quite safe. Well, not safe exactly... But physically, we're good.

Mentally however? Not so great. In fact just three minutes ago I caught Mo playing battleships with himself. And he was losing.

It's 3am now. Yesterday was a long day, full of ups and downs. We made it out of the city alive and pretty much unscathed. It felt great to be putting some miles between us and the zombie nation, kind of like winning the lottery, but instead of a lump of money I had a banged up Subaru and a few more days to live.

The main road quickly became the main problem. It seemed like every Tom, Dick and Harry had climbed into their cars and made a bee line for the country side as soon as the infection hit. The streets were gridlocked with unused vehicles and about three quarters of these were abandoned. The other quarter of them still had drivers inside. But they wouldn't be driving anywhere soon. I took the junction down onto a less used road, thankfully it was clear.

We pulled over to get our bearings together and pass around the bottled water. Thomas had mostly recovered from the shock of being in a marathon with a hundred other blood thirsty competitors and wasn't showing any signs of Zombiefication (Bad smell, poor manners, cannibalism etc). This made me glad. I didn't want to introduce him to Mr. Stabby the disgruntled pool cue. Mo found a road map in the glove compartment (Who the fuck keeps gloves in there anyway?) and we managed to pinpoint our position using our productive precision powers, because even during an undead invasion I can find time for alliterations.

We came to a mutual decision that our best bet was to head south and hope for the best. Here are a few of our reasons:

A) The Airport. We were a two hour drive away from one of England s biggest airports. Sure, it was probably more infested than a tea party of genital warts, but we figured that the helicopters had to be heading south and most likely for the airports landing pads. I'd happily forgive them for dropping a bucket full of trouble on our heads if they had a way out of this shithole country.

B) Low density population. Trust me, I know about this stuff. In fact I took Geography for almost TWO months. Ideally we want to get to the most southern point of England where the population is roughly half of what it is up this end. That and I hear it's really nice this time of year.

C) The Cottonwood Family. Me and Mo generally regard ourselves as outcasts. We didn't have any immediate family in the country. Mo moved here with his Dad when he was about five years old. Twelve years later his Dad was arrested for insurance fraud and Mo had to fend for himself. And me? Well, I'm too manly for family.

Fine, I'm an orphan. Go away.

C) So yeah. Thomas is big on the family stuff. He only sees them at Christmas and summer holidays because of his fear of trains (Don't ask). He circled the map where his parents and younger sister live and I told him we'll be passing through if the Airport plan goes to shit. Which it will because what doesn't go to shit these days?

Having a plan of action was a pleasant change. It was worrying that only a few days ago I was content with being shacked up in a two bedroom apartment and pissing out of the window to pass the time. Where was my ambition? Out the window with my urine I guess. Being on the road felt like we were fighting back against the invasion. We were the three musketeers. We were untouchable.

We were also lost.

Reading a map is hard, we all know it. It doesn't help that the roads are full of rubble, burnt out cars and moving bodies. What was intended as a two hour trip had already taken us three thanks to the endless country lanes and dead ends. I tried getting Mo to ask one of the locals for directions, he instead wound down his window and blasted an unlucky zombie in the head with his nunchucks to vent some frustration.

With the way things were going we would be facing a petrol starvation before we even got in sight of the Airport. And I didn't fancy our chances on foot. Thomas found an empty jerry can in the boot. (Of course it would be fucking empty.)

We hit another dead end. I was so annoyed I actually bashed the stereo, which activated the CD player. There was a brief silence before "Take on Me" by A-Ha blasted out of the speakers at the highest possible volume. This was the final straw. Mo looked positively horrified and started pushing buttons until the thing finally shut up. I couldn't help but laugh for at his hatred for Norwegian Pop.

Then it hit me. And this time it wasn't Mo hitting me but the fact that I'd just blared out one of the more annoying hits of the 80's. With my window open. In the middle of a completely silent country lane. During a nationwide pandemic. If you don't see the problem then you're probably already a zombie. So stay the fuck away from me.

I shifted into reverse and pulled off some mission impossible-esque driving (At about 20 miles per hour). Just when I thought our zombie mating call had gone unnoticed, one of them popped into view in my mirror. I increased speed, ready to splat the fucker like a puny hedgehog. And splat him I did.

The rear bumper took offense at being rammed into Zombie, so it abandoned ship and rolled away into the wild. The zombie did the opposite, rolling onto the car and pressing his face up against the back window to engage Thomas in a friendly staring contest. Thomas lost. I backed into a junction and swung the car around, throwing the zombie into the dirt. I didn't bother waving goodbye but Mo gave the poor fella the middle finger as we shot off down the road.

In the next ten minutes two things happened. Firstly, we found a road sign telling us that we were closer than we thought to the airport. If we avoided trouble then we could be there before it gets dark. But we all know by now that we aren't so great at avoiding trouble.

The second thing that happened was... Well, we were in trouble. My little hit and run with the zombie had left the car feeling a little poorly. The cars exhaust had either gotten cold feet or just didn't enjoy our company and wanted us to be eaten alive at the next opportunity. If you've driven a car with its exhaust dragging along the ground then you'll realize our problem. It's both loud and environmentally unsafe. I was mainly worried about the loud part; the environment had been labeled permanently unsafe when the G-Man started firing zombie rockets at us.

The car was still drivable, but we'd be putting ourselves at a bit of a risk. Sure, we're faster than the average zombie. But these things were tenacious with a capital D. They would follow you to hell and back for a slice of man-pie. And we had plenty.

It was an easy fix. All we needed was a bit of rope or some duct tape. Three guys running from a zombie invasion were sure to have such basic equipment, right? No. You are very wrong. And we are very fucked.

Mo blamed me for using the last of our tape to create my slingshot. So I blamed him for using the last of my rope to make pretend dreadlocks for a Caribbean themed campus party we went to eight months ago. It almost descended into fisticuffs before Thomas shoved himself between us told us to STFU or GETFBZ (Get eaten to fuck by zombies.).

We spread the map out over the Subaru's bonnet. There was a small town nearby that would have everything we need, but our first rule was to avoid death. We like this rule. So far we were sticking to the farmland outskirts and taking the long routes around any little villages that we knew would be swarming with Z's. We decided that our best bet was to stick to the road on foot until we found a friendly farmers cottage where we could borrow some supplies.

I locked the car door out of habit and we moved on with weapons in hand and an emergency backpack full of necessities in case we were chased up a tree by zombie dogs. Fuck, that's not a nice thought. Could animals get infected too? Thinking about it, I haven't seen any signs of wildlife lately. Unless you count the flies. There are an awful lot of them around.

My sharpened pool cue had been renamed Mr. Stabby (Copy write pending) due to its proficiency at stabbing things. It was comforting to hold as I walked down the empty country lane, keeping my eyes and ears open. Every rustling leaf or snap of a twig seemed to make me twitch with anxiety. At one point Mo sneezed, causing Thomas to almost soil himself. We were all on edge. After a particularly brutal incline, we finally crested over a hill and spotted a trio of bungalows attached to quite the massive plot of land. There was even an apple tree!

If we had any energy left I'm sure we would of ran down and secured ourselves in the house. Instead we just kind of dragged ourselves down the hill - it felt like we had been walking for hours. And we might of for all we knew, the only clock I had was on my phone and that was being used purely for emergencies.

And blogging. Hello!

I knocked once, then twice. Then I did a little drumbeat on the door. Then Mo smashed the front window with his nunchucks. Did I mention he's impatient? He is. We stopped to listen... We couldn't hear any of the usual Zombie sounds so we jumped straight in. The house itself was a typical retired couple's gaff. Patterned wallpaper, tea cozies everywhere, expensive china decorating the mantelpiece. You name it, this place has it.

It also had the odd distinction of having two fresh corpses, laid quite carefully on the floor, covered in twin white sheets which didn't quite mask the smell of decay. I was about to get my scavenging gloves on when we heard the stairway creak. I hefted Mr. Stabby like a lance, ready to go to town on some zombie ass.

She couldn't have been much older than ten. I was no expert on Zombieology but if I had to hazard a guess, I would say she could have turned as recently as last night. It was the tilt of her head and the animalistic look in her eyes that gave her away.

That and she charged straight fucking for us.

I didn't take any pleasure in it. Killing the bastards before seemed fair game. They'd lived their lives. Some short and some long - but they'd lived enough to get a good taste of it, and now they were trying to end mine. But this was different. This little girl wasn't even given the chance - her best years were yet to come. I couldn't help but think of the infinite amount of others that had their lives cut short by this fucking disease. It's hard to describe, but I know it's really fucked up. Like, really, REALLY fucked up.

I just managed to get Mr. Stabby up in time as she got within an arms length of me. And then it was over for her. Thomas excused himself pretty quickly. Mo just looked at me and nodded. I left Mo and Thomas to dig around the supplies we would need and went upstairs to find the girls room. I figured I'd give her the "White Sheet" treatment that her guardians had been given. When I walked into her room I somehow managed to feel a little bit worse. There were five empty bottles of pills on her bedside table and at least twelve posters of Justin Bieber.

I didn't know what was worse. The fact that this little girl had offed herself or that fact that she'd done it before she had a chance to discover real music.

I'll let you guys decide.

We found plenty of tapes. Duct, masking, pipe, paper. Every kind of tape you could want. There was probably a bit of rope in the tool shed - but it's starting to get dark and there's no way we'll be caught outside at night.

We've decided to stay here (In a separate room to the bodies and with a few scented candles burning.) and travel back to the car for repairs when the first of us wakes up. Then it'll be onto the Airport and hopefully to safety.

Yeah I know. I'm kidding myself.

But if we don't have hope then what the hell do we have? That's right. Noodles.

I'll catch you tomorrow when my phones eaten a couple more batteries. (I've got enough to last three apocalypses.)

Remember: Keep on keeping on.


	8. 06092011

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 0608/2011  
>Subject: <strong>

So, about that Airport. What a fucking fiasco that was. I've only got about five minutes to type this before my noodles are done, but I'll start from the beginning.

Breakfast used to be glorious. Eggs, bacon, sausages, hash browns, fried toast and mushrooms. THAT is a breakfast. Not the tinned stodge we've been living off.

Fact: Nobody likes pre-cooked spaghetti bolognaise out of the tin. It looks like orange duck vomit and it doesn't taste much better. But it's a hell of a lot worse than eating it cold like we did in the morning. I would happily trade my left testicle for a Big Mac and fries. This new diet wasn't doing my digestive system any favors. I was contributing to the brown sea at least three times a day. Enjoy that image.

The house was completely dead, and I'm not talking about the bodies. I took a bag out into the kitchen and raided the cupboards. I automatically turned on the kettle when I saw it, even though there wasn't any electricity. Some habits are hard to kick. I found plenty of tinned hotdogs in one of the cupboards for the barbeque that this family would never have. Who has a barbeque in September anyway?

Speaking of September, it's getting a bit nippy. In the mad dash from our flat I forgot to pack my winter essentials. I had to trade my last pack of Tic-Tacs for Thomas' spare gloves under the agreement that if he was corpsified before he finished eating them all then the ownership would be passed back to me. I don't mess around when it comes to Tic-Tacs.

Since Greg and Anne Keynsham (I checked their wallets - I didn't steal anything, I was just curious.) weren't using their coffee table, we turned it into a strategic discussion device and spread out our map. We had an hour's walk back to the car and then a thirty minute drive to the Airport. Throw in the ten minutes it would take to fix our exhaust and then add on the two hours it usually took to check in and get through security, we would be sat in the waiting lobby ready to be transported to somewhere with food, medical personnel and heavy weaponry at just past noon.

Adding to my extensive collection of tapes, we also snagged some other key equipment: A steel hatchet (For chopping); a wind up flashlight (For illuminating); a pack of playing cards (For lols) and a Johnny Cash CD (For grooving).

You may be thinking we were complete dickfarts for abandoning our nice little cottage (And in retrospect, it's probably a lot safer than the shithole we ended up in) but we had our reasons. For one, we wanted to avoid another horde of Z's surrounding us. None of us felt up for a Zombie gangbang and I still had a baddy on my tummy.

Also we kind of want to fly away from the-place-where-people-die-then-become-alive-again-and-fuck-shit-up. Or TPWPDTBAAAFSU if you prefer. And I heard the best way to fly away is to use an aircraft. Finding a pilot that doesn't want to eat us is the next challenge. But I like a challenge.

I fucking hate walking, by the way. Even in the middle of nowhere I feel like thousands of the things are just around the corner waiting to spit roast me. Luckily we only ran into one of the Z's. She was old, like really old. So old she had reverted back to crawling around on all fours. It was a mercy kill more than anything. A quick three way game of rock, paper, scissors meant that Mo had to do the dirty deed of silencing her.

We must have been in a friendly neighborhood, because nobody had even attempted to steal the Subaru. In fact, it looked quite shiny in the morning sun. We didn't take any chances, about quarter of our duct tape was used to hitch the exhaust back to where it should have been. I added a few layers of Red and White pipe tape to spice it up a little.

This time we knew exactly where we were going, sort of. Thomas took the wheel and I rode shotgun. Mo kept himself busy playing solitaire on the backseat and swearing whenever we went over a bump or swerved to avoid one of the locals. We got some Johnny Cash on the go and cranked the heat up. For a little while I was content, if you can look past the flood of Zombies, the possibility of starving or freezing to death, the lack of female company and the numerous other things that a guy needs to keep him from going insane then this wasn't actually so bad. No rules or responsibilities. We could go a hundred miles per hour with no cops on our tail (We actually couldn't, the car started crying whenever we topped seventy). We could take a slash wherever we wanted or walk around public in the nude. No homework or lectures. No taxes or rent fees. We were the surviving few, just looking for the next place to put our feet up and have a brew. For a moment I felt pretty good about life (or the lack of it).

Then we found the airport. And so had six hundred other people.

Oh, and they were all zombies.

I'm thinking now that the airport thing wasn't such a good idea. Thomas stamped on the brake, sending playing cards in every direction. Last time I had been here there had been a rather large car park. Now there was just a rather large collection of zombies amongst a scene of chaos. The airport itself seemed to be completely locked down, which was a fucking miracle with all these things hanging around.

I was busy trying to get a good look at the air field, but it was impossible to see through the ocean of bodies. Mo was yelling at Thomas like a mad man to turn us around, one of Z s had noticed the car pull up and was making googly eyes at us. It was like a fucked up domino effect, one by one every zombie head turned around to look at us with their zombie eyes. Then the zombie legs started moving in our general direction, zombie arms outstretched and zombie voice boxes making their fucked up zombie noises. All in all, it was a tad scary.

One three-point-turn later and we were driving around the perimeter, heading around the perimeter side to try and force our way onto the Airfield whilst simultaneously avoiding our new buddies. They're the cannibalistic type.

JACKPOT. We turned a corner and found ourselves on a road running parallel to the airfield. There were two RAF Helicopters hastily landed in the middle of the Airfield. At that moment they were the most beautiful things I had ever set eyes on.

OH FUCK. Did I mention the barbed wire fence? It's a big fence with barbed wire at the top and it was fucking with our chi.

Salvation was just a fence away. We were rolling along at a snail's pace having outrun the Z's. Mo wanted us to just plough right through it but I rejected the idea. This fence was keeping those military folk safe and if we knocked it down then the Airport would become just another infested landmark, with us to blame.

A light bulb must have popped to life above Thomas' head. He drove us off the road and then backed up so the back of the car was just touching the fence. We all jumped out of the car, grabbing what we could. The plan started to make less sense when Thomas grabbed Mo by his leather jacket and tried to rip it off of him. Mo, being Mo, didn't take kindly to it and began to kick Thomas repeatedly in the shin.

Things got a bit more serious as the first of the zombies came into view at the end of the road, roughly 150 yards away. Mo must have spotted it too, because he stopped moving long enough for Thomas to tug the jacket off of him. That's when things started to make sense again. Tom jumped onto the car and threw Mo's jacket onto of the barbed wire, then did the same with his own coat. I got a glimpse of Tom's balls of steel when he climbed onto the coats and jumped down onto the airfield. I shouted at Mo to follow and grabbed a couple of backpacks from the car to throw over the fence, which I totally would have done if I didn't feel a hand on my shoulder.

Not the warm, comforting hand of a father congratulating his son on winning a game of tennis. This was one of the cold, decaying hands that belonged to something trying to eat you. I heard Mo and Tom shouting instructions, telling me to do all sorts of palm thrusts and round house kicks. I ignored them and elbowed the fucker right in the face. A human being would have probably let go, I have pretty pointy elbows. But the hand only squeezed harder, desperate to pull off a chunk of my flesh. I elbowed him again, cracking him in the eye socket. I felt his skull splinter and cave in on the impact. It was probably the second most disgusting thing that I had ever seen, right up there with 2 girls 1 cup.

The zombie had let go of my shoulder to examine what was left of his face. I scrambled up onto the car and got a good look at the situation - not brilliant, to be honest. The horde had almost caught us up, a couple of them were even powerwalking. I pulled myself up onto the coats, forgetting I had a line of stitches in my stomach. The pain threw my balance off and I grabbed onto the closest part of the fence. It just happened to be covered in barbed wire.

Barbed wire fucking hurts. And in case you didn't know it's a length of wire covered in POINTY BARBS. And they had found a new home inside my hand.

It did the trick though, I regained my balance at the price of a few new holes in my fingers. I pretty much threw myself onto the ground below, I couldn't muster the energy to attempt a combat roll so I just sort of crumpled into the grass. Mo helped me up and then pushed me into Thomas, making it clear he wasn't carrying me anywhere. As we got further away from the fence the pain in my hand got more and more intense, I couldn't get a good look at it through my mangled glove but I figured I'd lost enough blood to fill a teacup or two.

Mo reached the first helicopter and confirmed it was empty. We didn't know enough about them to tell if they had been used recently or not. I knew for a fact that they were military because they were big and green, just like the movies. I needed a quick break before we kept on towards the main building so I leant against one of the choppers and gave my hand a quick look over. I could make out three deep punctures across my palm. It was bad but there was an old Chinese proverb that said: "Better to be mangled by barbed wire than eaten alive by a zombie."

And I'm not one to argue with China.

Mo was being a curious little bugger. He'd noticed one of the choppers had been left open and the other was locked. Me and Tom were happy to move on to the Airport lobby and book our flights but not Mo, he had a different plan. He climbed up onto the nose of the locked chopper and pressed his face against the screen.

A second or two passed.

'Pilot.'

Did I mention he doesn't say much?

'Dead.'

My hope started to plummet.

'Kind of dead.'

There was a muffled moan from inside the chopper. Mo jumped back in surprise when a hand appeared on the windscreen. It was followed by the rest of the poor bastard, still in his flight uniform.

I would of felt bad about the pilot, considering he was our last hope of getting off this island, but two things prevented that: My hand hurt like a bitch and there was an all-too-familiar sound in the air.

The flup-flup-flup-flup sound of a Helicopter hurtling through the clouds towards us.

Brb, noodles.


	9. 06092011 Part 2

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 0609/2011 Part 2  
>Subject: Push Comes to Shove<strong>

Things were looking up. And by things I mean myself, Thomas and Mo because we were looking up at the military helicopter hovering above our heads. The sight of it actually made me forget that I had several holes in my hand and that there was two hundred angry Z's only a chain-link fence away. Shit was about to get real.

My stitches tingled a little and in that moment I thought of poor Mr. Stabby. I had to abandon him during my over-the-fence escape.

I think Thomas was shouting something important at me, or just assisting Mo in cursing the whole situation to hell in three different languages. All I could hear was the steady thrum of the helicopter blades as the pilot brought the chopper in to land. I should've felt relieved that we'd found another living being, military or not, but all the blood I'd lost had left me feeling a bit frosty.

The chopper finally landed after a few overly dramatic seconds of hovering. The blades stopped turning and a different noise caught my attention. In the distance I could hear the metallic sound of the perimeter fence being manhandled. Or should it be zombiehandled? Either way, that fence was taking a beating.

For a few moments the chopper was silent, no movement. Then the door slid open. It was pretty surreal. The pilot still had his oversized black helmet on. He looked shockingly similar to a giant, olive coloured ant. I must have let out a small chuckle as my delirium kicked in because the guy turned to look at me. Then he froze.

At first I thought I was being challenged to a friendly staring contest, then I caught a look at myself reflected in the pilot's visor. It wasn't pretty. In fact, it was pretty - pretty horrifying (See what I did there?). I looked like the crack addled scroungers you see roaming the streets at night. Hair wild and face covered in uneven patches of manfur. I couldn't see the pilots face, but I imagined a disapproving frown. And I deserved every second of it.

What I didn't deserve was to have a gun pulled out on me and pointed directly into my face. I'm not that ugly.

The pistol wielding maniac took a few steps away from me and began shouting at nobody in particular. The helmet muffled his voice pretty badly so we didn't have a clue what he was saying but judging by his impolite gun swinging I assumed he wasn't asking for fries with that.

Thomas dropped to his knees in surrender, with his hands on his head. Even Mo seemed a little intimidated. (I was surprised to realize that he had one weakness: Bullets). The pilot swung his gun around to point at each of us in turn like the worst version of spin the bottle ever created. He finally decided he liked me least and for the first time in my life I looked down the barrel of a gun. I thought back to an old rumor I'd heard once that you shit yourself when you die and remembered the tinned sludge I'd eaten that morning. This wasn't going to end well for anybody.

The pilot shouted something. Then he shook his gun and shouted it again. I wasn't sure, but I think he was calling me a gibbon. Or a mitten.

He shouted again. This time I caught it for sure.

BITTEN.

Huh? As far as I could tell, the Pilot was in perfect health. Even after being savaged by a fence and losing more blood than I felt comfortable with, I couldn't see any visible bite marks on the guy's jumpsuit. He shook his gun at me again and I looked at Thomas for some kind of confirmation that this dude was one bun short of a bunion.

Tom didn't meet my eye, I thought he might have been checking out my package at the least appropriate time possible. But when I looked down I was confronted with a bloody combination of 100% cotton winter glove and the wounded mess that was my hand. Oh shit. This didn't look good at all.

In all honesty it looked like one of the Z's had gone and had a big old chew on my hand. Which was a tad worrying considering my delicate situation. The gunslinger was jumping to a very bad conclusion, the kind where the infected survivor gets his brains smashed repeatedly into the ground with a shovel. Except I wasn't infected. And nobody had a shovel. But the pilot had already made up his mind.

In a distant corner of my senses I could hear Tom trying to speak some sense to the guy. I decided this was the perfect time for an inspired, motivating speech. So I said something like:

Please, no.. No.. No! NO! Oh no.. Oh lord.. Not like this.. PLEASE NO.

And all sorts of other variations about how my head should ideally not feature any bullet holes. It was quite moving.

The pilot was obviously emotionally impaired. He shook his head as if to apologize. I would of told him exactly where he can shove his apology (The rectum cavity) when there was a THUD from inside the locked helicopter.

In all the excitement we'd forgotten about the OTHER pilot. The one that had no gun. And more importantly: No pulse.

The THUD came again, this time followed by a scrape. I followed this up myself with a sigh of relief (It was actually more of a whimper). The noise was enough to distract the pilot and his pistol, just before me and my bladder reached our breaking point. To a pre-zombie-takeover civilian, a mysterious sound behind a locked door would be a curious oddity at most. To a traumatized-zombie-apocalypse survivor like myself, it's a clear warning to step the fuck back. I guess the pilot didn't want to be categorized because he charged up to the door, shouting a name that I'll never know and started unbolting every lock he could get his hands on.

Mo reacted first. I was too busy bleeding out on the floor to be of any help - I was all out of laser eye vision. I had to watch as Mo attempted a jumping rugby tackle and then crumpled to the floor in an unconscious lump after being smashed in the head with the pistol grip. Thomas was our last hope, he approached with extreme caution and a detailed description of just what is lurking behind that door. Something Tom said must have penetrated the pilot's helmet, for a second he lowered his gun.

Then the helicopter door slid open.

Zombie Pilot launched itself at Non-Zombie Pilot. Before my brain registered what was happening they were rolling around on the floor like infant enemies on a playground. Tom managed to get his arms around the Z, but it was too late.

I've heard my fair share of screams. Screams of anger. Screams of joy. Screams of disgust - plenty of those actually. Death Metal screams. Ice creams (Ha). All sorts. But this one sent a chill down my spine. Or perhaps it was my body shutting down due to lack of blood.

Tom managed to rip the Zombie away from the pilot, but not before it buried its jaws into the poor bastards shoulder. Then came the scream. A single, long, agonizing scream that tore through my ear drums and convinced me completely that this person was going to die. That scream will haunt me until the day I'm corpsified.

So will the image of a large chunk of someone s shoulder being ripped away from their body. My injuries didn't seem quite as bad in comparison. The bitter rivalry that me and the pilot once shared fizzled away and for several seconds I felt nothing but sympathy for him.

I could only spare several seconds because Tom had heroically detached the Z's mouth from the pilot. In all the excitement he'd gotten 'Zombie' mixed up with 'Immediate Medical Assistance' and threw me the world s worst medipack. The Z' landed a half meter away from me and I could tell he wasn't quite satisfied with his interrupted meal. I'd only started to scramble backwards when he latched onto my shoe. Even with rapidly decomposing skin, he still had the muscles of a young RAF pilot. Seconds ticked by whilst I waited for my natural adrenaline to kick in and send me into Slayer Mode but... Nothing. Perhaps my body had just given up hope and surrendered. All I had to rely on was my street smarts and sharp wit. I was fucked.

Before I knew it he dived in and clamped his jaw shut onto my only pair of converse all-stars, biting straight through the material.

Lucky for me I was already crawling away. Admittedly I only had one shoe on. In a scenario like this, sacrifices had to be made. I don't recommend crawling with one hand, Tom told me later on I looked like an absolute pillock. I wasn't terribly bothered with my outward appearance considering there was a zombie inches behind me playing hungry hungry hippo's.

Somehow I got to my feet and started to run, heading for the closest helicopter for protection. But it wasn't long before the world span and I got those annoying little black spots in front of my eyes. I'd almost lost the will to carry on when BANG! It was the unfamiliar sound of a gunshot.

And then another. And another. And another. And another.

The fifth one was especially memorable, because my right arm started bleeding what little blood I had left and an unknown force propelled me forward the last few feet towards the chopper.

It was a few minutes before I realized what had happened, but in short: Tom had just shot me with a fucking pistol.

I rolled through the open door of the helicopter, using the arm that didn't have a bullet wound because I'm clever like that. I relaxed for a few seconds, happy to be in a safe, warm place. Then the zombified pilot popped his head through the door to say hello. It turns out Thomas emptied the entire clip of the pistol and managed to miss the zombie completely. What a trooper.

No matter how often you see them (Too often, if you ask me). Zombie faces will always give you a shock. They're just so damn ugly, not to mention that they're always trying and eat you.

That's why I didn't hesitate to tumble across to the open doorway, grab the door handle and slide it shut with every ounce of my remaining strength I had. Crushing the zombie's skull between a steel door and a hard place as it tried to climb aboard. It felt good man. It felt good.

Then I blacked out for the second time in the zombie apocalypse.

Can you really blame me? I was having a shitty week, in all fairness. I'm not even talking about the apocalypse thing; I can handle that shit all day long. You know that the world is fucked up when you manage to evade the zombies biting at your ankles but get knifed, impaled and shot because of human error.

I know it's not Thomas' fault for never having fired a gun before, or for being a jumpy little knife-wielding bastard.

What I'm trying to say is shit happens.

But only to me.

And also: Fuck this world.

Amen.

I was out cold for a long while. When I woke up my right arm and right hand had fresh bandages around them. Mo was keeping watch on me in case I died and turned into a zombie. You can never be too cautious I guess. The good thing about the bullet wound was that the pain distracted me from the knife wound and the barbed wire wound. See, I can find positives in the worst situations.

Tom informed me the bullet had just skinned my arm and it was merely a flesh wound. He also said that if he was ever bit by one of the Z's that I could happily return the favor. I denied his offer to kiss it better.

The Pilot had one more surprise for us. In all the confusion and name calling we hadn't realized that he had boobs. That's right, when removing the mask to check the pilot wasn't zombified yet Tom realized that she was, in fact, a chick.

This would normally be news I could smile about - but I didn't. She was writhing in pain and making all these grunting noises. I was a little pissed off that we'd let the only pilot and the only female we'd met get eaten by a zombie. Now we had another problem. See, we aren't idiots (Most of the time). Collectively, we had seen every zombie movie released. So we knew that once bitten, there was no going back. What we DIDN'T know was how long it took for the infection to work its magic. Would she just turn, or die and then turn? How long would she have to lie here in pain, did one of us have the balls to finish her off? Right now she was still human but that was almost certainly going to change.

I'm supposed to be going through the medical box we found in one of the choppers, but I figured this was more important. Who needs anti-biotics anyway? Well sure, I do. But a man's got to shake his stress off somehow. This is my reliever. Tom has his maps to read, Mo has his kung-chi-ninja-dance, and I have my blog.

We've got a meeting scheduled at 1600 hours. Five minutes from now. There are questions to ask and decisions to make. And hell, if we have the time, we've got a helicopter to learn how to fly. I hope Mo wasn't serious about that.

Another update in a few hours, if I'm still standing.

Luigi out.


	10. 08092011

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 0809/2011  
>Subject: Disposal<strong>

I was never good at meeting deadlines.

The post-meeting update turned into a 'Yawn, I'll do it tomorrow' update. And I was like TOTALLY going to do it. But then there were... complications.

Thomas had gone into full Sherlock Holmes mode to figure out just what happened to the zombie pilot whose head had been crushed via sliding door by a certain delirious man who likes to give his snooker cues nicknames. R.I.P Mr. Stabby, you were taken from me far too soon.

It didn't take long to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Somebody had taken a chunk out of the pilot's leg. Being a helpful member of society, the pilot had then locked himself inside one of the chopper's, written a hasty goodbye to his friends and family (Far too pessimistic to post on this blog) and then morphed into a dead man walking.

You know the rest: Pilot Chick releases Zombie; Zombie eats Pilot Chick; Thomas shoots friend in the arm; Best friend vents anger through a never-to-be-published-due-to-zombies-dominating-the-world blog. The usual Tuesday night antics in the English West Country. It's shocking to think that no alcohol was consumed in the lead up to this event.

To be honest, not a whole lot of anything had been consumed. My early dreams of running amok inside a local supermarket had yet to be accomplished. Up to this point we had been living off of noodles and canned goods. But our entire stock was left behind in the abandonment of the Subaru. All we had left was our wits and whatever was left in Tom's man-bag. Oh, and three military helicopters.

Back on topic. We now know that if you got bit, you turn. It sounds obvious to any zombie enthusiast but this invasion didn't exactly come with a rule book. Is it just bites that turn people or scratches too? How long does it take to turn? Was Tenacious D's tour of the U.K cancelled? Could it be the saliva that carried the infection? Not that I was going to go around giving out zombie kisses or anything, it's just good to know these things.

One other thing we didn't know was who bit the pilot before he bit the dust (And then stopped biting the dust and bit the other pilot). The airport runway covered a big area and not all of it could be seen from our little camp site. There were all sorts of hangars and trucks to hide behind. After the pilot debacle none of us felt quite up to starting a zombie hunt. Can you blame us? Instead Mo climbed atop one of the larger chopper's and assigned himself the job of look out.

We covered a few topics during the meeting. The first was; Just how fucked are we? The answer was very. As in, probably going to die within the next several days, very. Next we officially banned Thomas from handling firearms. EVER. Then Mo gave us the intel' on our new inventory/stolen goods. Whilst Thomas bandaged up my new and old injuries, Mo went and had a gander at the Helicopter interiors.

Chopper number one was completely abandoned, stripped of anything useful. This made it the perfect storage area. We didn't have any actual items to store away though, so we decided to use it to store away dead zombie bodies instead. Digging graves isn't easy... Why do I know that you ask? Err... Long story. Let's move on.

Chopper numbero dos was a different story. We hit the mothertrucking motherload. There were three full containers of M.R.E's (Thomas reckons it stands for Meal, Ready-to-Eat. But I think Majorly Revolting Edibles is more likely, they taste like cat turd). On top of that was every kind of tool you could ever use. I say you because I'm pretty clueless when it comes to hard labor, or any kind of labor. Don't get me wrong, I know my way around a power drill, but who honestly knows the difference between a phillips and slotted screwdriver? Not me.

You'd think the army would equip their helicopters with all sorts of assault rifles and explosives but... Zilch. These choppers were ill equipped for dealing with zombie uprisings. The most offensive things Mo could find were a nifty collapsible fire axe and a crowbar. Thanks a lot, Queen Vickie.

There was some stuff we could use too: Water rations, tarps and the like for shelters, big olive-drab rucksacks that I recognized from my hiking days, filled with all sorts of awesomeness (Matches, miniature stoves and more). And of course, my much needed antibiotics. Plus a load of wound dressing and anti-septic cream that went a long way to getting me back on my feet. It was a shame there were no stretchers, the thought of Mo and Thomas carrying me everywhere was a nice one. Sadly it wasn't to be.

The last helicopter belonged to the pilot, or used to at least. This meant we knew it was flyable and fueled. We just didn't have a clue how to get it off the ground - a minor hindrance.

In other news, the Pilot only lasted twenty four hours.

She was falling in and out of consciousness by the time we got to the awkward subject of just what the hell we're going to do about her. Each of us had our own opinion. Tom wanted to wait it out and see what happens. Mo had a different plan: Put her out of her misery. My plan? Well, I just wanted to crawl into a corner and go to sleep, but apparently that wasn't allowed. So the final decision came down to me.

A wise man once said the hardest decision and the right decision are usually the same thing. That man had never seen a zombie gnawing on human flesh. This decision was easy - we couldn't take any chances. If this makes me an asshole then so be it. I'd rather be an asshole than get zombified. Thanks to the antibiotics I was finally thinking straight, probably.

Thomas didn't entirely agree with my passionate speech, perhaps because it was slightly more drug addled than the one I typed above. He was eventually convinced when we realized that we had our very own tool of destruction: The Gun.

We had a little session before the meeting where we took it in turns to hold it and feel bad ass. In England, very few people owned firearms (Excepting Police and Army personnel). You had to either be a criminal, a farmer or rich to get hold of one. Even an approved license involves a police search of your house. Whilst it meant minimal gun crimes, it also meant that when the zombies come a'knocking that we have to make do with nunchucks and pointy sticks. And they aren't ideal, I can tell you.

Nor is living with an infected pilot. She was in a bad shape. I wasn't a first aider or anything but I could tell she was going through one of those fever things. Sweating buckets and shivering at the same time. Coughing up blood, bile and other unsightly fluids. We waited until she fell into unconsciousness, again. Even then she was still whispering gibberish at a hundred miles per hour. Tom removed the roll of tarp he'd put under her head as a pillow (it would be a shame to ruin it with brain splatter).

I watched from a few feet away as Mo raised the gun and just as the last rays of sunlight faded below the horizon, he pulled the trigger.

Click.

Of course the fucking thing was out of ammo. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

And that, my friends, is the thrilling tale of how we didn't kill the pilot.

Twenty hours later Flight Lieutenant Catherine Wood died from her wounds.

Thirty minutes after that she woke up.

Several seconds after that Mo caved in her skull with a crowbar.

It wasn't pretty. It wasn't anything.

It's the morning after as I write this. Thomas has been tinkering with the VHF Radio in one of the choppers. He interrupted my impromptu rendition of Radio Gaga by Queen to broadcast some distress calls, so far we've had no response.

We're pretty much back to square one. Relatively safe but with danger right around the corner. A chain link fence won't last long against three dozen zombies. They were pretty agitated after all of the gunshots and I don't think it's because they were worried about my well being. They're after meat.

We decided against infiltrating the airport itself, we're pretty sure that there's a whole host of corpsified critters inside. If there were any survivors then the Air Force would have had them ferried away by now when they first arrived and cleaned up the runway. It's a shame we got here so late (and fucked up the whole operation).

The only job left to do is sort out an escape route. If things turn to shit (Things are totally going to turn to shit.) then we'll want a fully stocked driving machine ready to speed on out of here.

Unfortunately for us our choices are; Minibus, Luggage Caddy or Fuel Truck. It's a tough choice to make.

But I've never tried doing doughnuts in a minibus, so it should be fun.

I'll leave you to do whatever it is your doing. Surviving, I hope.

Remember to stay safe folks, and don't talk to strangers (Unless they offer you sweets).

Luigi Out.


	11. 08092011 Part 2

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 0809/2011 Part 2  
>Subject: Like a Rolling Stone<strong>

Today has been one of those days. You know the type, one minute everything is going swell and then you remember you're currently experiencing the world's first legitimate zombie uprising, complete with legitimate zombies. Believe me when I say this, no amount of Shaun of the Dead, Day of the Dead, Land of the Dead, Night of the Dead, Bar Mitzvah of the Dead or even High School Musical of the Dead can prepare you for the real thing. Especially when the real thing tries to hijack a minibus that you're driving.

I'm getting ahead of myself, the day actually started out quite well, the end of the world weather forecast was offering a rare sprinkle of September sunshine and the corpse storage chopper only smelt really, really bad compared to really, really, really bad.

I cracked open a ration packet to start off my morning and scored big with a pork sausage and beans, washed down with a bottle of water and handful of anti-biotics. Yummy! Next I decided it was about time I did something constructive. So I took a leak and then started unloading the rucksacks whilst trying to avoid direct contact with Tom, who had been playing with the VHF and scanning the helicopter charts all night, he looked like he was one 'My Precious' away from turning into Gollum. There were five bags total, and one of them was empty.

Ideally we should be carrying one between us. So I lent one against one of the choppers in case another curious soul happened to sneak past the zombies and barbed wire. I dissected the remaining three. There was a lot of non essential stuff that would only slow us down. I was still a bit disappointed that there weren't more firearms, but perhaps that's for the best. None of us had much shooting experience (but we had lots of head-bashing experience) and we didn't want more accidents.

In the end each pack was a comfortable weight, with enough kit and MRE's to keep us happy through the next couple of months. Now we just needed a vehicle to load them into and a full tank of petrol. Mo still couldn't drive (Thinking about it, the runway would have been the perfect place to learn. Bollocks.) and Tom was busy sending out maydays and plotting a backstreet course to the South Coast.

That left me. Fuck yeah. One of the positives of the entire British police force turning into zombies is that there's no speed moderation. I couldn't wait to burn around the runway in a luggage caddy. Even if it could only go fifteen miles per hour. Damn, I miss the Subaru. I set off on my lonesome, going solo isn't generally advisable in my kind of situation, but hey, how dangerous can an abandoned airport be?

If you answered Very Fucking Dangerous then you win a cookie.

I did not win a cookie.

I went and searched about eight different vehicles before I found one with a set of keys hanging from the mirror. Terrible place to leave your keys, by the way. It was a flatbed truck, almost perfect, except it only had two seats. We could carry a lot of gear on this sort of thing, but shoving someone on the back was a risky business. Also I should mention we'll be sticking to the country roads. Though I'm not one to pass up a challenge, the thought of ploughing a truck through those meter-and-a-half lanes wasn't a pleasant one.

So I soldiered on. I had a good go on a lightweight caddy, it was nice to feel the wind in my hair. It wasn't as nice to hit a pothole and almost decapitate myself at an astonishing eleven miles-per-hour. This was seriously the highlight of my day up to this point. It sounds silly but for the first time since The-Fucking-Of-The-World I was actually bored. In theory that should be a good thing because it means I wasn't being chased by zombies or mauled by werewolves (Hey, it could happen). But I'm young and restless, I can't sit around doing nothing when there's a whole country full of danger ready to swallow me up. Someone might call that naive or immature. But they're probably dead, so who cares.

It wasn't long before I stumbled into sight of the bus shed. An airport bus was the ideal getaway vehicle for Team Face-Smash. (Temporary team name. Feel free to send in your suggestions.) Small enough to squeeze through the British back alleys and big enough to crush a few unsuspecting zombie skulls. Another plus: Sleeping on a bus seat was a slight step up from the inside of a helicopter.

The light bulb above my head dimmed a little as I got closer to the shed. Only two buses remained standing, not a good sign. Those bus drivers must've been really spooked by the whole zombie thing. Sadly, not spooked enough to leave the keys in the door. Bus #1 was locked, I was getting used to this. I skipped Bus #2 and headed straight to the adjacent office to check for keys and almost dropped a brown one in my pants when a rat scuttled out of the door, dragging behind it something that looked remarkably like someone's missing finger.

Then I met Mr. Fingerless. Or what was left of him, his brains had been dashed over the floor in an artistic fashion. It looked kind of like a sunset of spaghetti bolognaise trying to escape his skull. Whoa, I'm not sure where that came from. Anyway. He was also missing a finger or two, cementing the fact that this man would never again drive a minibus. If I had time to spare I would have held a minute s silence, but I didn't, so I moved on.

A single key fob hung from a wooden plaque on the wall, effectively halving my chances of finding a drivable bus. I tried the keys in Bus #1 and met rejection. Hello rejection, my old friend. Moving on. Bus #2 presented a minor setback. There was a human face pressed up against the window, eyes closed. Due to the horrifying events leading up to this moment, I wasn't amazingly trustworthy of human corpses, even ones that SEEMED dead. I tapped the window where the vacant cheekbone was resting. She was a she, an elderly she, a she that looked fairly healthy apart from the fact that she was dead. Perhaps this bus was safe after all.

I tried the key, there was a satisfying click and the doors slid to one side. Bingo. Now it was time to actually drive the damn thing. Easier said than done. It took a scary couple of seconds for the engine to turn over, and then I stalled pulling out of the shelter. But other than that, it was easy going. The petrol meter ticked up and up, a nearly full tank, almost too good to be true. I can't remember properly, but I think I might've been smiling as I made the sharp turn towards our little 'copter base.

Then I heard something topple and roll behind me. I adjusted my mirror to find out what the ruckus was and realized that Ol' Mama Cheekbones had been screwed over by gravity and thrown out of her seat. I didn't have any pity to spare for the dead, so I reached up to re-adjust my mirror. But then I noticed something alarming about her legs.

She didn't have any.

I knew what was coming next, I should have thrown myself out of the window, but instead I flicked the mirror again. There he was, in all his gory glory, happily chewing on a detached old-lady-leg. I stomped on the brake so hard that my bullet hole squirted out some Luigi juice in protest.

There was smoke, a loud screeching noise and a poorly placed pothole. The last one of these severely fucked up my day. I panicked, because there was nothing else my body felt like doing, and sent the bus into a sharp swerve. I've done this plenty of times in the past and never have I rolled onto my side like a four wheeled sausage. Then again I've never driven anything taller than five feet.

The swerve pitched me onto the two left wheels. I stole a glance at the mirror to see that both corpses (Dead and Not-Quite-Dead) were rolling around the deck in a tangle of rotting limbs. I powered the steering wheel as far left as I could and throttled forward, desperate to get back onto four wheels. It worked, but the impact jarred my entire body and I put some unneeded pressure into the throttle. When I looked up I realized we were speeding straight towards my old enemy, the barbed wire fence.

Before I could even consider braking a figure moved into my vision and my zombie radar went into overdrive. I didn't hesitate to elbow smash the bastard in the chest. Sadly, it wasn't very effective and he came at me gnashing his teeth like a feral dog. I decided to do the only logical thing left to do.

I jumped out of a moving bus.

I expected things to go into slow motion as I hit the floor and rolled into a standing position, took my sunglasses out of my front pocket and put them on as the bus rolled away and eventually exploded.

Instead I rocketed into the dirt and lay there for several long seconds in a painful heap.

I finally made myself look up, just in time to watch the minibus roll, quite gracefully, straight through the perimeter fence whilst simultaneously grabbing the attention of any Z's nearby. If I was trying to royally screw up everybody's day then that was fucking well executed. But I wasn't, so I jumped to my feet and charged off towards our base, fully expecting Mo to greet me with the blunt end of his nunchuck. That wasn't the case. He didn't greet me at all and neither did Thomas, they were nowhere to be seen. For a second I thought they'd both gone to the little boy's room, but then why were the three rucksacks I'd packed missing? A look back at my stolen bus told me that we were about to be gate crashed by some real ugly looking mo'fuckers. I was at a loss, I didn't want to leave without my friends or my gear, but had they abandoned me for punching a hole through our fence? Those evil bastards. Those ungrateful piles of aardvark shi-

BEEEEP. BEEPITY-BEEP-BEEP.

Oh right yeah, the flatbed truck. Those wonderful bastards had hijacked the truck I'd test drove earlier. I didn't have time to be picky so I gave Tom a salute and slid onto the back area and tried my best not to fall out when we sped off in the opposite direction to the mess I'd made. Mixed feelings crept into me. Guilt that I'd screwed up the situation and relief that we were on the road again. And for a second I was scared, ONLY a second. It was when I was watching the Z's crawl onto the airfield at the mere sight of us. They didn't have a hope in hell of actually catching us but they didn't give up. They wouldn't give up. Not until somebody shoved a hard object through their head.

We ploughed through the fence with ease. This truck could take a beating. Tom drove for forty minutes straight, taking blind corners and hitting more than a couple of dead ends. These country lanes were an absolute maze. Finally we pulled into a farm and drove straight onto the nearest field. Tom managed to wedge the truck between two massive hay bales to keep us out of sight. We watched the farmhouse for an hour before we were certain that it was empty or at least locked down. We hadn't attracted any unwanted attention. Thankfully, nobody mentioned my fuck up at the airport; I hope they knew that I was just trying to sort out our escape plan. Tonight we'll be taking turns on watch. It'll be rough but it's better than a zombie sneaking up on me in the middle of the night and taking a bite out of my ass. I took first watch, a nice excuse to type out this blog. In a few hours I'll be able to snatch some sleep in the trucks cockpit (It only fits two at a time). Until then, I should probably get back to the whole keeping watch thing. Yeah. That sounds like a plan.

If you're interested I'm on 25% battery life remaining and I've got a whole packet of batteries waiting to be absorbed. You won't be getting rid of me any time soon.

With that, I'll say goodnight. Keep on trucking.

Luigi out.


	12. 09092011

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 0909/2011  
>Subject: On the Road Again<strong>

I woke up at the end of my watch, just in time to see a nunchuck fly towards me. I deflected it with my face and then promised Mo that I wasn't dozing off. He looked a bit skeptical when I informed him that I was actually practicing my slow motion blinking, but then he shrugged and let me climb into the trucks cockpit. And with three guys, it really was a cockpit.

What followed was a truly terrible night's sleep. Not because of the zombie nightmares but because Tom kept leaning on me and drooling down my shoulder. I was pretty glad when Mo dragged him out of the truck to take over on watch, until he began sleep-mumbling about how his tool box was full of potatoes.

The sun was barely peeping over the horizon when I stepped out into the frosty outdoors to empty my bladder against an unfortunate shrubbery. It couldn't be nice to be pissed on, but you know what else isn't nice? Getting shot. It sucks. Sure, the bullet only grazed me, but that's an 800 mile-per-hour piece of metal searing the skin right off of my arm. Fresh bandages and high dosages of various medicines seemed to be working their magic though. My fingers are recovering pretty well from the barbed wire incident and the blood from my knife wound has managed to seal the wound into an itchy, red scab. It's not pretty, but neither are zombies.

Tom snapped me out of my mid-pee thoughts with a sharp whistle which I assumed meant he wanted my undivided attention. Usually I'd nod along whilst he pondered the future of our race or carefully planned our next steps and then begged me not to fuck it all up with a minibus. This time though he managed to catch my eye with a scattering of maps, most of which centered around the southern coast of England. They were well-used, lots of scribbles and coordinates left behind by the team of pilots that we had met, all of whom were now dead. I shuffled the maps around and started to notice some more recent markings. There was a large black cross over 'Southampton', a port city on the south coast. I didn't know what that meant but I figured it wasn't anything nice.

Tom nudged me and poked at a different map, this one was further to the west. There was a question mark drawn next to 'Exmouth', an answer would have been nice too, but it wasn't to be found. Next to Exmouth was Tom's finger, still pointing at something. I moved it out of the way and finally saw what the fuss was about. There was a large, red circle around a small village, up the river from Exmouth.

Starcross. I'd never heard of it but it sounded like it belonged in Game of Thrones. So I instantly approved.

It didn't look like much, but that can probably be blamed on the satellite imagery support team's budget being cut when the guys at UK Space Agency turned into zombies. There was a train station and a ferry landing marked on the map, I was expecting a few more sniper towers and helicopter landing pads. I was a little disappointed, but if the Military were interested in this little seaside shanty, then so were we. Well, me and Tom at least. When I asked Mo to take a look he just gave me the finger and walked over to the farmhouse to see who was home.

Tom figured one of us should go help him and I told him to feel free. If Mo was going to be swinging his nunchucks around in close quarters then I didn't want to be anywhere near him. Tom grimaced for no reason. Or was there a reason? Was little Tommy intimidated by the mysterious easterner known only as Mo? At first it seemed positively absurd. Then I forced myself to look at Mo from someone else's point of view and realized he was no longer the gentle souled anime loving, Jet-Li worshipping provider of succulent fried chicken and frequent compadre on many a video game that I had spent my college years with. He was in fact a cold-hearted nunchuck swinging, roundhouse kicking ball of destruction that was mostly aimed at zombies but would occasionally jab me in the ribs to remind me whose company I was in.

I guess the end of the world changes some people. Who knew?

I pulled my attention back to the maps and noticed two things. Firstly, my fingernails were filthy. Secondly, someone had taken the precious time to scribble down a list of dates next to the circled Starcross. My immediate thought was re-supply dates. I had a feeling the pilots were scavenging for whatever remained of their military base in the south. I recalled a certain couple of helicopters flying over my flat to ruin my day and whipped out my phone for a bit of early morning cross referencing. According to my blog (you should totally read that, by the way), we witnessed the flyover on September 2nd - seven days ago.

I checked the map again and bingo, the last date penciled in was September 1st. The pilots had been gone eight days. Would they send reinforcements? Did they even have any reinforcements? Tom pointed out that they could be deserters and given the current situation I didn't blame them if they were.

I had to hold that thought, because at that moment a body was thrown through the farmhouse's top floor window, showering the driveway in shards of glass.

It was pointless destruction of property. Mo's favorite kind. He stood where the window had been a few seconds before and even though he wasn't smiling, I could tell he was proud of himself.

I diverted my attention to the struggling stranger who had just plummeted into the ground as Tom muttered something about a reckless idiot getting us all killed. The poor bugger was still dressed in his farmers garb, ready for a morning of weed whacking and cow milking. I didn't have the heart to tell him that his cows were all zombie fodder. Or that there was a psychopath raiding his house for anything useful. Or that we were considering stealing his car as soon as we figured out where he kept the keys.

I wanted to check his pockets, but he wasn't entirely dead yet, so I figured I'd better fix that first. Mo strolled out of the house carrying a cricket bat in one hand and a packet of crisps in the other. He tossed me the bat and kept the crisps.

I'm no doctor. I haven't even watched ER. Ever. But it was unlike a zombie to lie so passively still - falling out of a window must be bad for the spine. His neck stuck out at an odd angle so I got a good look into his eyes. Hunger. Not hate, not hostility. He looked at me just as I would look at a bacon-double-cheeseburger. And I couldn't blame him at all, because I fucking love cheeseburgers.

I did my duty and cracked open his skull on the second try, I was never good at cricket. The bat was a poor substitute to Mr. Stabby the disgruntled pool cue, but it would have to make do for now. Tom once questioned why a pool cue would be disgruntled, but wouldn't you be disgruntled if you were thrusted in and out of partially decayed bodies?

Mo rewarded me with a nod for my zombie disposal. I was hoping for a crisp or two but he's a greedy bastard. I inquired about the houses population and he sent a small chill down my spine when he informed me that the other resident had been effectively terminated.

I ventured into the house on my lonesome. Accident prone or not, I wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to plunder someone else's belongings. I fought down my gag reflex when the death smell hit me; it was something I had to get used too. I tried to avoid looking at the corpse of the farmer's loyal wife in the corner of the room, but Mo's handiwork always impressed me, no matter how brutal. A nunchuck didn't seem the ideal weapon during a zombie apocalypse, but the kid managed to pull it off. He has this weird knack of shattering the soft part of a Z's temple with one hit.

Hoping to spice up my military rations, I picked up some salt and pepper in the kitchen and then got out of there promptly. Someone had left the fridge door open so the whole room smelt of crotch rot.

I was part way through examining an antique compass when an engine coughed and spluttered to life somewhere outside. A peek through the window told me that Thomas had found the farmers car keys and was assuming direct control of his vehicle. A tired looking Suzuki jeep rolled into view. It didn't look very inspiring, but it was small and compact with more than two seats. Just what we needed to get to Starcross without attracting too much unwanted zombie attention.

We were back on the road in under an hour. Bumping along the countryside at a steady pace and avoiding potholes and occasional dead farm animal. We saw a lot of post-outbreak carnage that day. Abandoned cars, burnt down buildings and one poor attempt at a police blockade which let Tom show off his sick maneuvering skills. I deducted him 10 points for running over a fireman's corpse, that's just disrespectful. We spotted the occasional Z, on the road and scattered over the surrounding landscape.

We were heading south following an antique compass that I may or may not have stolen from the farmhouse. It's not like they were going to be using it any time soon. The bearing took us scarily close to a few of the little hamlets tucked away between the fields and forests. Each time we avoided it, food and water wasn't an issue for now and the places were indubitably infested with infected. Yeah that's right, I'm using alliterations now. We had a potential petrol problem which could have culminated in a colossal car crash (Okay, I'll stop now). But what with the majority of the country losing the ability to drive, petrol prices were at an all time low.

The sun was starting to dip down into the early hours of the afternoon when we rolled into a neglected looking garage. Someone had definitely been here before, I knew that because the petrol pumps were all hanging from their hooks, swaying in the September breeze like an artistic (but useless) wind chime. Apart from that, the place was seemingly empty.

We all took a minute to have a little stretch, we'd been cramped into our little jeep for hours. Once we had limbered up, we sprung into action. Mo climbed onto the jeep to keep look-out whilst Tom fiddled with the petrol pump. I had the most important job of all: Mars bar duty.

You can't blame us. We're three young gents in a part-abandoned and part-zombified country, it's only natural we take advantage once in a while and get loaded on chocolate bars. So on that thought, I headed into the store. This new world was full of nasty surprises, so I had a good, long look through the window before I ventured into the unknown.

There were bodies. A lot of them. This had to be the closest petrol station to a lot of the little villages dotted around close by. I won't go through the trouble of describing them, it's getting tiresome. They were dead and that's all you need to know.

On a lighter note: SCORE! I grabbed me some mars bars and a peanut butter Kit Kat for Tom (He's weird like that). I waved the Kit Kat at Tom to let him know I was thinking of him. In return he pointed at the store front and shook the pump in the air. I got the drift; some stations used a failsafe to prevent spillage. I vaulted the counter and had a quick look around whilst the devil on my shoulder told me to empty to the cash register. I informed him that we were having a slight economy crisis and that money was no longer relevant.

I giggled a little when I switched the failsafe and caused a spurt of petrol to spray Tom's shoes. It was nice to know the simple things in life still tickled me. It was a little nostalgic, stood in a shop, eating a mars bar, watching two friends fill up a car ready for a road trip. It was a nice throwback to a simpler time. Things never stay simple.

Maybe it smelt us, or heard us. Maybe it was just blind luck. The Z stumbled round the corner and into plain sight, if you happened to be looking - which Mo wasn't. He was more interested in his pack of cards, shuffling them for the thousandth time today. I hammered on the window and caught their attention, then I pointed as hard as I could at the zombie behind them, pretty much stabbing the window with my index finger. They seemed a little surprised, then Mo stood up abruptly and pointed back at me, equally as hard. I didn't get what kind of game he was playing so I took matters into my own hands and bounced back over the counter.

Directly into the arms of the sales clerk.

That's an overstatement. She didn't actually have arms. Just two meaty stumps where they should have been. I was kind of thankful for that, because it made it easy for me to throw her off balance. I stole a look out of the window to see how Tom and Mo were doing, they'd finally noticed their visitor and were taking it in turns clubbing him around the head with various blunt objects.

I dived on top of the clerk and became the unwelcome receiver of a slap to the face from her left stump. I suddenly felt a lot less apologetic for stealing her mars bars and a bit more concerned at keeping that stump away from my orifices. Out of instinct I found myself straddling her with my hands around her neck, I'd left my bat in the car so I only had my strength to rely on.

My moral code was having a bit of a tough time processing what was happening. Never before had I considered forcing myself onto a women and then attempting to choke the life out of her. Times have changed, so I threw any honor and gallantry that I possessed out of the window and squeezed harder.

Tom and Mo found me about two minutes later, still choking the clerk whilst being repeatedly bashed in the shoulders by her bloody stumps. For some reason the cheeky lass refused to die. Tom knelt down next to me and patted me on the back.

'You're choking a zombie.'

Yeah, and a little help wouldn't t go a miss. Dickhole.

'It's a zombie.'

If he had a point, I would've appreciated him making it.

'A zombie.'

Then I realized. I was choking a zombie. I loosened my grip. Zombies don't have operating lungs, they don't breath. It was kind of embarrassing. Mo shook his head at me and snatched the bag of Mars bars; I didn't deserve any chocolate today.

Tom was still chuckling to himself when he mashed the Z's brains into the floor with my bat.

Whilst I'd rather end this entry with a story of me being super awesome as opposed to being an absolute twit, this is getting a little long. I'll crack on with the next entry after dinner, I've drawn first watch and there's been a moral development I want to put into words. Just wait and see.

With that, I'll leave you to it. Just remember; Don't abuse women. Unless they're zombies.

Luigi out.


	13. 10092011

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 1009/2011  
>Subject: Nightrain<strong>

Lunch was eaten in a companionable silence. Mo had dragged his kill away from the jeep, leaving an unsightly trail of spilt brains. It was almost enough to put me off of my chicken dumplings, but I was still being deprived of my mars bars so I tucked in anyway.

Tom made the baffling decision to skip lunch and instead chose to study his map of the south coast. The question mark printed next to his home town of Exmouth had stolen all of his attention. The fact that it was practically next-door to Starcross, a potential haven, gave Tom hope that his family were still alive. I wanted to be hopeful too, but we've seen a lot in our short time on the road, and most of it is death. The last news report broadcasted told us that 40% of the country's population were human; the living, breathing kind. I'm calling bullshit. I wouldn't be surprised if we were down to the last 1%. Scared shitless, sure. But not surprised.

A cynical part of me recognized the fact that we might never see another human being again.

Pushing the thought aside, I started chugging down some of my meds and doing petrol calculations in my head. A few silent seconds ticked by before a steadily increasing engine thrum pierced my thoughts. I scanned the horizon, but the pitch was too high for a helicopter. It was a car, it had to be. And sure enough, a moment later I caught my first peek of the beauty. It was sleek and black like something from James Bond – easily putting our little jeep to shame. The car came screeching to a halt several feet away from us. It must've been going over a hundred MPH to kick up such a rancid smell of burning rubber and black smoke.

Forget all of my pessimistic ramblings, there were people just a hopscotch away from me. Real, beautiful human beings who didn't fly helicopters or point guns at me - the best kind of human beings. Tom, Mo and I shared a look, unsure of how to approach the situation. Then the cars tinted black window began to wind down. I was so giddy I bypassed the whole chewing process and swallowed my chicken-dumpling-antibiotics-combo.

And then I choked. I mean really choked, coughing and spluttering, gagging and shooting medication out of my nose. I must have looked a wreck. Tom rushed to my aid as I fell to my knees and glimpsed the slimmest snatch of long, golden, glorious hair before the window suddenly switched to reverse and snapped shut.

Mo did his best to salvage the situation from his vantage point on top of the jeep. He stood up, waved his hands in the air and shouted 'HEY YOU!' as loud as he could whilst pointing his nunchucks at them in a less-than-friendly manner.

Within the seconds the car was shooting off down the road. Going faster than our little jeep could even dream of going. But if you think that stopped us from giving chase, you're almost completely wrong.

I didn't really have the reason for going after the joy riders fully formed in my head, so when Mo asked me what I expected to achieve by doing this (He actually used far less syllables and some added profanity) I just stumbled through a shoddy monologue of how humans should band together during these rough times and then waved my hands around in a feeble attempt to distract him from the original question.

Tom didn't need any motivation, we had a shared agenda. You could say we were two peas in a pea bucket, or however that saying goes. It was only natural for our race to band together, because let's face it; _If we can't live together then we're going to die alone_- Jack Shepherd 1969-2007.

And in all honesty, our group could use some new blood. Whoa, that's a bad expression to use in this scenario. I mean some new faces. To talk to. To play cards with. Maybe to cuddle at night-

I'm going off topic.

Jeepy had been force fed about 45 litres of petrol. Enough to get us to Starcross and a little extra for any sightseeing we might want do on the way. Right now our sights were set on the black speedster. What we lacked in speed we made up for in child-like determination and a lack of anything else to do. We also had mars bars, which is both a tasty snack and a helpful bargaining tool in a desperate situation. Remember that mars bar bargaining only works on humans, who still retain their taste buds and chocolate cravings. Attempting to manipulate a zombie with chocolate may end in tears. And a mouthful of flesh missing from your body. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Mo called shotgun, so I was riding in the back area where the kit was stored, it was pretty roomy. I was almost looking forward to sleeping tonight, we had tactically removed some of our farmer friend's blankets, plus my new compass and a few other delicate items that should come in handy. The prospect of a cover over me and a rucksack shaped pillow under my head at night was a comforting one.

It took us under ten seconds to pack away our belongings and pile into the Jeep. A perfect silence dropped around us as Tom slotted in the keys and turned the engine on.

Except the engine didn't turn on.

You couldn't find a sound more soul destroying than an engine trying and failing to turn over. I told Tom to fix it, to pump the throttle, to pop the hood and fiddle with the colourful wires, to do anything. In an uncharacteristic fit of rage he slammed his hand down on the dashboard and told me to shut my *expletive* mouth. The last time I heard Tom use language like that he was attending a street party full of zombies, so I gritted my teeth and refrained from telling him to wash his mouth with soap.

Our hopes of catching up to our new apocalypse buddies were draining away. After another agonizing moment of watching Tom fumble with the ignition I decided to take charge. We swapped seats and whilst doing so Mo felt a sudden unfounded repulsion towards the both of us and excused himself from the vehicle.

I had neither the time nor the patience to pay any attention to Mo and his mysterious antics, so I gunned the accelerator pedal until my foot cramped up and hoped to hell that somehow my magic touch would get this keep going. But it didn't. Nothing. I slumped back into my seat, defeated by the machine. Then a face slammed against the window.

I thought, and hoped, it was Mo playing a trick. And in a way it was. It wasn't quite Mo's face (It didn't have nearly enough flesh attached) but it was definitely put there by Mo and his weapon of destruction. The face of a forty-something male zombie bounced off of my window and slid to the ground, leaving a bloody splat for me to remember him by.

I suddenly understood why Mo had left the car in such a hurry. Either the jeeps engine failures or the obnoxiously loud braking from the other car had given away our position to any Z's that happened to be lurking nearby. Mo was taking care of those closest to us, but I could make out some across the road, separated from us by a flimsy chicken wire fence. And a dozen more forming a shaky conga line at the end of the road - heading straight for us.

It frustrated me that Mo hadn't raised an alarm, admittedly he was more of a bad-ass killing-machine than I'll ever be but that didn't mean he had to put himself at risk solo killing our new guests. I made haste and exited the vehicle with Tom passing me a crowbar through the window. So far I was unfamiliar with the correct use of a crowbar when defending from a zombie attack, so in a silent tribute to Mr. Stabby I rammed it through the eye of the first Z I came across, pointy end first. It was super effective at rendering the frontal lobe obsolete. Or squishing the fucker's brain. Whichever you prefer.

I found myself back to back to Mo, swinging our weapons in unison whilst Tom tried over and over to get the engine running. It was a simple case of letting the zombies get close enough and then shoving my crowbar through the softest part of their skull. These corpses had spent a month stewing in the open summer sun, which certainly had done no favours to their rapidly decaying bodies, that and they clearly weren't including enough fruits and vegetables in their diet. Because of these factors, the Z's around us were a minimal threat, individually they were just target practise. The group a little way down the road, however, was a different story.

A lull in the action allowed me to inform Mo of what a lousy look-out he was. I was awarded with an elbow to the ribs for my comment, I guess I should consider myself lucky that he chose the side that didn't have a bullet wound.

Toms head appeared out of the window, calling us in for a team huddle. According to him our last option was to push start the jeep, he volunteered to be the one doing none of the heavy labour, leaving the hard work to me and Mo. We looked at each other. Then looked at the oncoming Z's, barely forty feet away - and some of the fresher ones were starting to pick up speed at the enticing sight of us. Their eyes bulging and tongues lolling.

I think it's safe to say that most of the effort put forth into getting the Jeep running was Mo's, that's not to say that I didn't give it a good go. I attacked that jeep like it was the kitchen door on Shrove Tuesday. Fun Fact: I love me some pancakes. Back on topic. The energy in my body was being split two ways: Evasion of zombies and the repair of various bodily wounds. Couple that with the fact that I'm constantly high on anti-biotics and you're sitting on a majorly frazzled Luigi.

None-the-less I threw myself into the task at hand. For a second the jeep refused to budge, then Tom took the handbrake off and away we went - slowly at first but gradually picking up speed.

A flash of blue in the corner of my eye told me that the first of the Z's had caught us up. Mo reacted before I could - driving his foot into its shinbone and swatting it to the floor with his nunchuck. Another made a lunge for my torso but fell short and faceplanted into the road. More and more of the things swept into vision, more than me and Mo could handle, I found myself banging on the roof of the Jeep telling Tom to hurry up and get the thing started before I began to lose a few chunks of my backside when the engine finally revved into life and filled my heart with joy.

The both of us toppled over as the Jeep hurtled forward a few feet. I landed hard, knocking the wind from my lungs and the joy from my heart. Then I rolled out of the way as Tom backed up, knocking a couple of the Z's backwards whilst letting me and Mo scramble into the Jeep.

It wasn't until I was strapped into my seat and looking out the back window that I realized how close we had come to being swept into the zombie swamp. The chicken wire fence had capsized, clearly figuring out that all of its chicken friends had been eaten and taking its own life the only way it knew how. Or at least that's how I like to think it happened. If that engine didn't start when it did we would've had zombies approaching rapidly from two angles, and that's two more than I'm happy with.

Mo had sacrificed his shotgun seat to me in the kerfuffle. He reverted to fuming on the backseat, arguing with himself about how the "jackass joy riders" had herded a group of Z's towards us and then left us for dead. It was hard to deny, but in all fairness they had no idea we would be occupying the petrol station - we'd effectively caught each other by surprise.

We quickly outran the gathered Zombies, re-acquainting ourselves with the countryside and its maze of narrow roads and dirt tracks. The rest of the afternoon passed in a stony silence, we saw neither hide nor hair of the joy riders. Perhaps it was a good thing - I wasn't looking forward to introducing them to Mo and his nunchaku. Either way, if we find them or not, it's nice knowing that there are others out there doing their best to get by and sharing the struggle.

The darkness crept up on us sooner than expected. It was no comfort that the days were getting shorter as Autumn kicked into full swing. We had discussed continuing through the night, Starcross was just a day or two from view, but the idea was unanimously rejected. We had enough trouble driving with perfect visibility, I shuddered to consider the mayhem and mishaps that we would run into in the dark. So instead we trundled along, looking for a suitable haystack to hide behind or a large cluster of conveniently placed foliage. Tom was almost frustratingly picky when it came to this, every hideout we found was too open or didn't have enough escape routes in case I messed something up. I'm not sure why he singled me out when it came to things going wrong - I'm not that accident prone, am I? By my estimates it had been over 24 hours since I'd caused myself bodily harm, if anything I deserve a medal for that.

After passing up a cosy looking cottage because the windows had less than 50% translucency due to grime and misuse, I demanded that Tom pull into the next passable location we find. It turned out to be a truck stop, and for a place mostly dominated by greasy, large men, it wasn't so bad. The worrying thing was that if the truckstop was here then we were in the vicinity of a major road. While the road may be less travelled these days, that doesn't make it any less populated by those cuddly Z-bags. Other than that, it was a solid place to set up camp. In fact, it looked as if somebody had shared that sentiment. A bunch of the supply units had been pushed up against the chain link fence that surrounded the allotment, fortifying it. Beyond the abandoned trucks was a clearing, big enough for us to park in the centre and a have a good view of all angles. We planned to play a couple of hands of Blackjack to see who draws the first watch.

Tom got to work on collapsing the backseats of the jeep to make space for our slumbering bodies whilst me and Mo took on patrol duty - just to make sure we weren't locking any unexpected guests in with us.

I was on my third circuit of the allotment, pretty convinced that we were alone and absent-mindedly swinging my crowbar when I stumbled into the middle of a hushed conversation. I thought at first that one of the parked trucks may have been talking to me. But the tone was muffled and tinny, like a radio. That and trucks don't talk, obviously. I crept closer to the voice - it was coming from the closest truck, the door ajar. It eventually faded to a whisper and drifted away. Quickly followed by a sudden hiss of static and then an abrupt silence.

Then Mo jumped out of the truck, straightened up and looked me in the eye, he almost looked shocked to see me. And more than a little guilty.

I asked him what he was doing.

'Uhm. Nothing.'

I asked him who he was talking to.

'Uhm. Nobody.'

I didn't believe him. So I stalked past, avoiding his glare, and jumped into the truck's driver seat, located the VHF radio and switched it on.

_' ... are stuck. It was my idea to stay here and ... -Static- ... third floor of St. Louis Catholic School and there's no more food. I told him it'd be okay. I lied and I said it would be okay. You have to find us. Anybody that can hear.. The army.. The fucking army flew right over us. The St Louis Catholic School in Frome. It's right on the A362 road and.. You just have to find us. I'm with my little boy and-'_

I heard the kid. Barely audible in the background. I'm not ashamed to admit that it tugged a heartstring or three.

_'Lie back down Ronnie. No, away from the window-'_

There was a four second hiss of static as the recording was cut off. Then it came again:

_'To anybody listening. My boy.. Me and my boy are stuck. It was my idea to stay here and ... -Static- ... third floor of St. Louis Catholic School-'_

I switched the radio off and soaked in the silence for a few moments. I didn't attend a catholic school, but I was almost certain it wasn't a nice place to be trapped in this pandemic. The poor bloke's voice ran circles around my head. I put myself in his shoes. His tormented, desperate shoes. And in seconds I knew what I had to do.

I had to tell Tom and let him make a decision.

I exited the truck and found myself blocked by Mo's outstretched arm. I was almost positive he didn't want a hug, so I looked him in the eyes and asked what he wanted. For a second he held my gaze, then he shrugged and shook his head, admitting defeat. I made myself think that by trying to hide the broadcasted beg-for-help that he was just being rational, keeping us blissfully ignorant and eliminating whatever risk we were putting ourselves in by attempting a rescue. I know Tom would see it differently. He would say that Mo was being cold, ignoring a desperate father and son just to keep himself out of danger. But he doesn't know Mo like I do. The Mo I know cares. Probably.

To Toms credit, he thought things through and considered options I didn't, balancing out my heroic enthusiasm and Mo's stern disapproval. How long had that message been repeating? What if they had starved two weeks ago? Why did anybody think 'Frome' was a good name for a rural village? In the end it came down to the simple conclusion that if we didn't go, then we were complete assholes. We may not be super, or have matching spandex costumes. But Team Face Smash was about to reach a whole new level of awesomeness. What does that make us? If you answered 'Big Damn Heroes', then you just earned yourself a permanent place in my personal nerdsphere. (Speaking of Joss Whedon themed trivia, ain't it just a damn shame that we got rocked with a Zombie Apoc' only a year before The Avengers was scheduled for release? Perhaps it's a good thing. I had a bet with Mo that if it made it into the top three highest-grossing films of all time then he could superglue an entire pack of playing cards to my face.)

It's funny how things work. An hour ago we were discussing all the things that could go wrong if we travelled by night (And giggling at how many of them would be my fault). Dangle one child's life in front of us and we throw all our precautions and superstitions out the window. We're now hurtling down an unfortunate road with our headlamps on full beam, blinding any zombie that tries to get a look at us. We're heading north, back towards the airport. Whilst we didn't know exactly where Frome was, it was only a matter of time and distance before we ran into a helpful sign post. At least that's what we're hoping. Mo was fading in and out of sleep in the back, leaving me as the wingman. I don't mind so much, I don't think I could've slept if I tried - not whilst Tom was skidding around these corners like a man possessed.

Like the wise Bon Jovi once said: I'll sleep when I'm dead.

Luigi Out. For now.


	14. 12092011

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 1209/2011  
>Subject: Big Damn Heroes<br>**

Yesterday was the worst day of my life. Well, maybe that's not true. I mean this one time (Back before Mr. Shit was introduced to Mrs. Fan and they had some lovely zombie babies.) I dropped my ice cream cone, stubbed my toe AND was falsely arrested for sex trafficking in the same day. Worst 13th birthday ever.

Today hasn't been much better, in fact I've barely been awake ninety minutes and I'm already cold and tired. I'm also both wet and disgruntled, sore and distressed, malnourished and discombobulated. But most of all; I'm alone.

The fever of bravado that had been keeping me awake through the early hours of the morning had all but faded away as we rolled up to the hundredth road sign of the night. All in all it had been one of the more terrifying five hour drives of my existence. And Mo had slept right through it. It makes for an exciting adventure when it's the middle of the night and every shadowy movement sets you jumping. It's a real test of bladder control. The chaos we saw and avoided would make for a thrilling blog post, at one point we found ourselves manoeuvring around a small zombie parade – although we couldn't figure out what it was they were following. Right now I'm in a volatile situation, I could have to dash off at any moment, so I'll keep this post to the point.

The point in question is St. Louis Catholic School.

The fuel meter had ticked another half-inch closer to the reserve line as we rolled onto a dimly lit meadow. Our little rescue mission had taken its toll on the petrol reserves, leaving us dangerously close to the capital E. And it doesn't stand for 'Everything's going to be just fine'. It stands for 'Emptier than my stomach the morning after St. Patrick's Day'.

Tom's sudden yanking of the handbrake launched me back to consciousness and sent the playing cards that I'd been folding into paper aeroplanes crashing to the ground in a synchronized nosedive. I let out a dry chuckle at the performance, which was followed by a snort from somewhere behind me as Mo woke up from his slumber. I decided at that moment to exit the car before he saw what I'd done to his cards and dished out the appropriate punishment.

Outside Tom was scanning our surroundings, he's a cautious fellow. I decided to throw caution to the wind. And by caution I mean my own urine. Hey, we hadn't had a toilet break for five hours, so you can't blame me. After thoroughly relieving myself I caught up to Tom and heard the comforting ambience of a running river.

We'd reached some kind of merging. A bunch of little streams were all flowing into a bigger river, heading east. Tom nodded behind us and told me it was just over a mile until we get to the town of Frome and the Catholic School. I was pretty impressed with his midnight navigation, I could barely make it to the bathroom in the dark without walking into a wall. I asked him where he got his information and he kicked a slab of concrete in front of him.

It was a mile stone. I'd always thought of them as kind of useless until now. I mean, before TFOTW (The Fucking of the World, for newcomers.) we had our fancy phones and satellite navigation, nobody could care less about a little piece of rock in the ground. Who knew it only took a nationwide pandemic to make people appreciate a little bit of Roman ingenuity?

So we had our direction. We had a jeep. We had an angry easterner with a pair of angry nunchucks. We had minor problem with seeking out the correct school out of the dozens that would be dotted around the place, but we'd jump that hurdle when we stumble across it. In the dark. With no fuel. Damn, as far as rescue missions go, this one wasn't looking too promising. That and my back felt like I'd spent the last five hours sitting upright in a car seat. I severely hoped that I wasn't developing a curve in my spine, that wouldn't give me any advantages in the zombie slaying business.

Nor would our lack of sleep, Mo not included, the lucky bastard. In fact there was a lot of things working against us; Fuel shortages, bullet wounds, reluctant help from my supposed best friend to name a few. That and I was starting to realize that the broadcast we'd intercepted was more cryptic than helpful. Here's some advice, next time you're surrounded by a herd of brain dead cannibals, give us a postcode, a street name, anything. A cash-reward is also appreciated.

So with that bleak outlook settling in nicely, we headed off towards the town of Frome. You know it's a shame the guy that named the place 'Frome' had probably died centuries ago. If anyone deserves to be zombified it's him, I mean 'Frome' sounds more like a pleasant venereal disease than a country side village. We were only on the road for ten minutes when a dark outline of buildings cropped into view. None of them looked particularly catholicy or schooly so we didn't get our hopes up. As we drove closer we started to spot other silhouettes, except they were less building shaped and had more of a haphazard gait and the flailing angles of a zombie.

We got past the border with no trouble. Then we started to hit trouble. As in, literally hit trouble. The first zombie bounced harmlessly off the side of the jeep, the second one didn't go down as easily. Thomas hit it at an angle, there was a smash and a fizzle and our right headlamp went dark. I don't blame him for it, but Tom panicked, stepping on the throttle and sending us skidding around a corner, directly into a line of abandoned cars. Our left headlamp burst on impact and me and Tom both hurtled forward. I smashed my face into the dashboard, in those few seconds I knew what it was like to be a zombie up against Team Face-Smash. It wasn't nice at all. It was a painful lesson to learn, even when threatened by a zombie apocalypse you should wear your seatbelt.

Tom recovered before I did, luckily he only crushed his jaw instead of squashing his nose. Unavoidable tears streamed down my face, if you've ever been punched in the snout you'll know what I mean. I watched through a blurry haze as Tom launched us into reverse, backing over a few unlucky Z's and demolishing the rear bumper. We eventually found a new road to blunder down, one less filled with vehicles but equally as infested. The Z's were just everywhere. It reinforced our initial decision to avoid places like this, they were just way too anti-humanity. And I'm kind of a big fan of staying human. I assume Tom was thinking the same thing, he was doing his best to avoid unnecessary contact, the jeep was an old bird and the farmer we'd half-inched it off had been putting it to good use over the years, we didn't know how much punishment it could take before falling to pieces.

But we found out pretty sharpish. Without headlights we were driving on borrowed time - Tom swerved and ended up hitting a big boy square on, the kid must've been looking at a promising rugby career before he was turned into a zombie and took a direct hit from our Suzuki. The result was one squashed-to-fuck zombie and a steady gout of steam billowing out of our engine. We left McRugby rolling in the dirt and sped off into the night, at least looking at the steam was slightly more interesting than pure darkness. Except neither helped our visibility issues and it wasn't long before another shadowy figure bumped off the side of our jeep, sending Tom into a panicky skid across the road.

We narrowly avoided being split into two by a lamppost. But we barrelled through a chain link fence instead, which is slightly less horrifying but still did its damage to the car. We'd rolled into a car park and gotten ourselves into a little bit of a pickle. At some point the engine had conked out, from abuse, heat exhaustion or general apathy we would never know, but it was dead and staying that way.

Mo's feet were the first to touch the floor. He slipped out of the back of the jeep and started to offload our rucksacks and a few other key items. I was awarded with my new buddy, the crowbar, still a little crimson around the edges from our previous excursion. Tom gladly took the cricket bat, I figured it was because he could lean on it when we weren't looking. A night of driving added to a beastly bruise that covered the majority of his jaw seemed to have sapped the life out of him. I wasn't feeling to great myself, but we had more pressing matters to attend to. Looking around I could make out about a dozen figures shambling towards us, admittedly some of them were going the entirely wrong direction, which confirmed that they didn't have x-ray vision and were just as handicapped by the darkness as we were. But they sure as hell looked agitated, like they could smell us, or they heard our huge crash and burn, one of those.

We bid a hasty fair well to the Suzuki. She'd served us well, better than we ever could've wished for. Tom shoved an explanation point on the moment when he turned around and de-faced an incoming Z with the edge of his bat. After that we were off, storming into the night with nothing but our ragged clothes, partially full rucksacks and assortment of blunt weaponry. We quickly adapted a hit and run tactic. The zombies were just too slow to be of any danger on their own, but we occasionally turned a corner at a local florist or something and would hit a group of five or six. We each took a swing at the nearest Z and then barged through, keeping on the move and in the shadows. It was a good tactic, but we were working on minimal sleep and had been living off of a minimal diet. Add these together and drop us in a high-energy situation and we quickly realized that we weren't in the best of shape, giving the zombies a distinct advantage. Without brains they had no limits, they could chase us around the country side all day without breaking a sweat.

It hit Tom the hardest. He kept up for the first ten minutes or so as we dived deeper into Frome in search of the Catholic School. But then his bat swings started to lose their strength and he started to lag behind us. To his credit he never said a word, in fact when me and Mo stopped and offered him our shoulders to lean on he shrugged us away, telling us to get on with the job. He'll catch us up later, he told us. It wasn't advice I was willing to take. In fact I damn right refused. Partly because I'm a bloody good friend and partly because we turned a corner and ran into a blockade of zombies. How many zombies, you ask?

A metric fuck tonne.

Somehow we'd found the town centre. Along with most of the towns population, except the elderly weren't sitting on their benches, the youngsters weren't sipping cider out of the can on the street corners and the parents weren't doing their weekly shop. Instead the community had to come together for some kind of twisted midnight shindig, and their attention had switched to the guests of honour.

The first line of the zombies couldn't resist the feast of meat we'd presented to them. Half of them tripped over in the excitement, but the other half charged straight for us, mouths dripping with blood and saliva. My two least favourite fluids. Mo kept his cool, out of the corner of my eye I saw him wait until a zombie lurched into close quarters before he swept it off of its feet and drove the blunt end of his nunchuck through it's cranium. I chose the balls to the wall tactic. Because seriously, what's the point in having balls if you can't throw them at a wall once in a while. I lunged forward and gouged my crowbar into the socket of an unfortunate pre-pubescent zombies eye. The only problem was that when he fell to the floor, his life essence depleted, he took the crowbar with him.

The whole process left me feeling pretty pissed off. I was forced to take a few steps back as more of the Z's swarmed in. I had a feeling Mo couldn't give less of a shit about being eaten alive, I shouted at him to back up but he kept swinging and swinging until I was forced to take action. Here's a word of warning, if your ever around Mo when he's fallen into one of his bloodlust-battle-trances, don't grab his jacket from behind, because there's a high chance he might mistake you for a zombie and start carving holes into your skull. Luckily I only received a elbow to the gut before he swung around and realized I wasn't particularly decaying or zombified. I managed to drag him back away from the battalion of approaching Z's, but the plan to put a little distance between us went array when we turned around to discover a entirely different but equally disturbing group of zombies approaching from the rear. Now, I'm generally against anything approaching me from the rear, but zombies are just the worst. Forwards or backwards wasn't an option, so I looked to the sides. On my left was a news agents (Holy crap they're selling snickers bars at two for the price of one). On my left however was an abandoned car, and Tom was standing next to it with his cricket bat primed and ready.

SMASH.

I never had Tom pegged as a vandal, but he must've channelled every last ounce of his strength into that swing, smashing a jagged hole in the car window. What came next was both beautiful and horrifying. Tom shoved his arm through the hole in the window, a hole that was just too small to shove an arm through, slicing himself open at a half-dozen different angles. Then he hammered his fist into the cars horn. BEEPITY-BEEP-BEEP.

It worked. As much as I didn't want it to, it worked. A hundred, maybe two hundred partially dead faces switched targets to Tom, who was trying to shake off the shards of glass poking out of his forearm. I opened my mouth to tell him what a loveable idiot he was but he pointed to my left and nodded. There was a dark alley just beyond the news agents, shooting off into backstreet's of Frome. When I looked back at Thomas he was already off, using his second wind to weave in and out of incoming zombies and using the cricket bat to shove them away from him. I watched him fade away into the mesh of bodies, and I would've kept watching if Mo didn't grab me by the collar and direct me towards our escape route.

The overhanging rooftops limited what little light the night sky was giving us, so I thumbed out my iPhone and transformed it into an iTorch, shedding a little iLight on the iSituation. A glimpse at the screen told me I had 57% battery remaining, that would usually last a long while since I only used it for post-apacalyptic blogging. But with the torch activated it would drop like a lead balloon.

I was thankful for the light, what I wasn't thankful for were the gruesome sights it brought with it. A few times we found ourselves walking past discarded body parts, the flesh ripped right off of them and only the nibbled, gnarled bones left behind. At one point Mo accidentally knocked over a boot. How is that scary, you ask? Well the boot still had the foot inside of it and the leg was nowhere to be seen. Hows that for a halloween prank?

We got lucky for about eighty yards or so, then I shined the torch directly into the vacant eyes of one of the locals. It was an awkward location to start a back alley scuffle, the narrow walls prevented Mo from delivering one of his trademark skull bashes, so instead we sort of wrestled the Z to the ground and then stomped at him until he stopped moving. It wasn't very slick, but it got the job done. I powered down my phone as the alley forced us back onto the street and into the thick of things. Toms heroic diversion had given us a lot of breathing space, leaving us with just a scattering of neighbourhood creepers, which for the most part were easily avoidable.

I usually consider myself a rather stealthy person. I'm no 007, but I can sneak my way through an abandoned town when I need to. And I desperately needed to. What I didn't account for was the rucksack strapped to my shoulders playing a pots-and-pans drum solo every time I crouched behind something. The first few times went unnoticed by the Z's, Mo however was less than impressed.

We came to a small junction in the road where once-upon-a-time giant, engine-powered machines would stop to offload dozens of happy travellers. The ancient civilization called them buses. I preferred to call them giant piles of wank because they were never on time. Mo stopped abruptly to check the time table. I reminded him that it the bus probably running eternally late and he shoved his hand over my mouth to silence me.

He used more force than necessary and I took a step backwards, catching my foot on the curb and falling onto my back. I was thankful that the rucksack was there to cushion my fall, but the impact jarred the contents into something closely resembling a Christmas jingle.

I caught the attention of one of the nearby Z's. She looked my way and snarled, clearly not in the festive mood. When I got to my feet Mo's face was buried in a map of the local bus routes, but he was aware of the danger we'd conjured up. He held out his nunchucks for me and muttered 'Deal with it'.

I snatched them out of his hand, happy for my chance to impress. You see, Mo wasn't the only one who had seen a martial arts movie. I'd seen Kung-Fu-Hustle. And I'd only slept through half of it.

I let the she-zombie stumble in close, swinging the nunchuck above my head like a lasso. When she was in range I let loose with a furious torrent of abuse and bounced them off of her shoulder. It didn't have the desired effect, so I flicked the dangling nunchuck back and tried to catch it and then squealed when it clamped down on my fingers.

I figured they must've been broke or something and flung them back at Mo, who caught them in mid air and then kicked the legs out from underneath the Z. Not stopping to finish the job he then grabbed my wrist and pulled me away from the scene.

'Second left, right, right, left.' were all the words he said as we dashed along the road, keeping low and hugging the shadows. We had maybe an hour of darkness left before the first rays of sunlight would begin to expose us.

I kept my eyes and ears alert for any sign of Tom, hoping to see him come around the corner in a pimped out anti-zombie minibus. I resisted the urge to imagine him as one of the undead. The maggots crawling through his empty eye sockets as he studied those maps of the south coast, shambling along on his half-chewed legs- RESIST. RESIST.

We took the second left, following the schoolbus route that would lead us to St. Louis Catholic School, according to Mo anyway. We passed a couple of tempting take-away joints before turning left at a pet store, the door still ajar. I didn't even want to imagine the furry massacre inside. We curved around the corner and then took an instant right turn, two down and two to go and just when I was starting to think it was a little too easy, we ran into trouble.

Mr. Trouble was about six foot five and he was wearing a fireman's outfit which I quickly became tangled in. When I heard the guy grunt into my ear I got so scared that he'd have a nibble on me that I actually stopped, dropped and rolled. Nobody said it didn't work for zombies too. Mo swooped in to lend a brother a hand, a hand attached to his nunchucks. The first blow only rocked the firezombie, but left his head in tact. We decided we didn't have time for a follow up assault after noticing the surrounding onlookers becoming a little too interested in us. The good thing about zombies is they're slow as fuck. Whilst me and Mo were lithe and nimble, giving the Z's a wide berth and dodging between the stagnant traffic.

We took another right, more zombies. More dodging and weaving. More stamina would've been nice but it was a bit late to work on that. I started to develop a stabbing pain in my side as we approached the last corner. I couldn't fathom how our military lived off of the same rations and managed to stay in fighting shape. Or any shape for that matter.

Mo overtook me on the final stretch and then slid over the bonnet of a red Vauxhall Corsa, the zombified and bespectacled driver watching him with a hungry curiosity. I followed him over the car, my studded belt leaving a scratch or two. I couldn't help but wander over to the side of the street and lean on the roadsign poking out of the ground. Just a moment to catch my breath, Mo would understand, right? Wrong. Mo stalked over to me and produced his 'chucks, then tapped the roadsign gently.

_ST. LOUIS STREET_

Oh fuck yeah. Mo nodded and we moved on together, zombies still trying to catch up. The street itself was surprisingly empty, making me question the broadcast we'd picked up. The trapped father had made out that the school was absolutely surrounded. We passed a bus stop and a sweet shop, it almost made me miss school. Eventually the terrace housing and shops on our right gave way to a giant playing field, complete with school football pitch.

From this distance the school looked more like a prison, it was a two story building surrounded by an iron fence, perhaps to keep the children safe from kidnappers and dead cannibals. There'd clearly been a miscommunication somewhere down the line, because instead of locking people out, an entire swarm of zombies had been locked in.

I could make them out as we jogged closer to the fence, waddling around with no real goal or purpose. Big ones, small ones, teenage ones. Thinking back on it I'd say it was the most shockingly grotesque causality I'd witnessed so far. I started to notice a low buzz as we crept closer, it wasn't the buzz of excitement, it was the buzz of a hundred thousand flies hovering around the undead. Zooming in and out of the various new orifices that had been created by the decay.

We crouched next to the fence and considered our options. I could just make out the gate, chained shut and having its bars shaken by the masses. Perhaps if we opened the gate we could herd the zombies away like cattle, giving the guys trapped inside enough space to make a run for it. Then we'd just need to escort a malnourished father and child through an infested town, find a working vehicle...

A tap on the shoulder brought me back to reality. Mo pointed up to the second story of the school where a flickering orange light was illuminating one of the class rooms, casting shadows against a wall decorated in flow charts and periodic tables. I felt a warm spark of hope inside of me. We weren't too late after all, but we still had a multitude of zombies to deal with.

I vocalized my master plan to Mo and he nodded to himself, clearly impressed with my ingenuity. After a few moments of quiet contemplation and placed a hand on my shoulder and stood up. In a fashion that reminded me of a jailer and his baton, he placed his folded nunchucks against the bars of the fence and started walking towards the gate, dragging the 'chucks along to create a metallic clanging. One by one the Z's turned to see what the fuss was about and then rushed the fence when they caught sight of Mo.

He picked up speed as snarling faces pressed up against the bars and arms started to poke through the gaps. Slowly the horde made its way towards the gate, stumbling over each other in an attempt to get a taste of Mo's sweet hiney. All I had to do now was infiltrate the school. Which meant climbing a rather pointy fence. But hell, I've been through worse. At least there wasn't any barbed wire.

I still fumbled, getting a little snagged at the top and then just letting the weight of my rucksack dunk me over the edge. It wasn't dignified, but there was nobody around to see, so I let it go. Another glance at the gates let me know that Mo was frantically working on the chain, getting ready to unleash a whole heap of rowdy adolescents into the village.

I ducked under an archway and found a fire exit door hanging off of its hinges. Stepping into the school I was met with an eerie silence that sent a small chill down my spine. Another thing working against me was the darkness, so once again I powered up my phone for a little bit of assistance. I was sitting on 37% battery remaining, I just hoped it was enough to last me to the classroom.

I crept up to the first doorway and had a peak through. It was the gym. I just glimpsed a tattered badminton net and slither of movement in the far corner when I closed the door. I had another brilliant idea – where there's a gym, there's a storage cupboard. Being unarmed wasn't doing much for my self confidence, so before I went any further I'd need a little help. I swept my torch around the corridor, finding and opening doors at random. Behind the second one was severely bad stench so I slammed the door shut and moved on. The third door swung open and I let out a sigh of giddy relief. A square room with gymnastic mats, basket balls and all kinds of blunt weapons.

I didn't have much time so I made a snap decision, choosing an aluminium baseball bat over a hockey stick or cricket bat. I could hand out some serious damage with this thing.

I burst into the gym and sprinted towards the opposite door, ignoring the movement around me. An arm made a grab for my rucksack but I sidestepped it and dived through the door, almost slipping on somebodies discarded school books. I recovered and did a sweep of the room with my torch, illuminating two Z's, something small, dead and cat-shaped, a staircase and a shopping trolley. Whilst the shopping trolley prodded at my curiosity, I took the staircase, knocking back one of the zombies with my bat. At the top was a long corridor, classrooms on either side. I could make out a faint light dancing at the far end, casting shadows against the opposite wall for the three zombies clawing at the door, desperate to get inside.

I switched off my light to take a two handed grip on my bat and then set off at a charge. They didn't notice me until I was well into swinging range. The first one I took in the temple, slamming his skull against the door with a spray of brain matter. The next I downed with an overhead swing, she was two feet shorter than me and the torque split her skull, covering the bat in all sorts of horrible goo. Number three waddled towards me, mouth wide open. I took a breather and then used Mo's technique, sticking my foot behind the Z's heel and shoving him over. I followed up with a killing blow, driving the bat directly downwards into the poor guys forehead. That's three for the road.

A single fly flew out of one of the corpses and past me as I bent over, hand on my knee to fight off a wave of nausea. I banged twice on the classroom door, still huddled, and shouted for them to open up before more of the things followed me up the stairs. Twenty seconds passed and nothing, then I heard a dull moan from the other end of the corridor. It was too dark to make anything out so I tried the door. Locked. It was understandable but didn't do me any favours. I readied myself and then forced the baseball bat through the thin glass window of the door, if they weren't going to open up then I'd let myself in, it's only fair. The key was still in the lock, luckily, so I turned it once and ploughed through, pushing over a desk that had been stacked up against the door.

The first thing I saw was the dying candle, the wax nearly fully melted. Then I took in the sight of the classroom itself. Each desk had its own personal assortment of clutter stacked up high. Electrical cables, power boards, detached sockets. All sorts of fun electrical things to play around with and blow up. If I looked hard enough I could probably find a few more packs of batteries.

The sound of footsteps down the hall alerted me back to the door. I slammed it shut and locked it, not wanting to get caught unawares. Then I turned back to the room and noticed something I hadn't seen before.

There was a figure stood in the corner, his head bowed. I cracked a smile and made to introduce myself before realizing that the guy was at least nine feet tall. An unnatural specimen to say the least. I openly gaped, then remembered it was rude to stare. I faintly called out to the guy, assuming he was the father. Silence.

I remember approaching him, feeling a slow aura of dread hang around me. As I moved past the desks I finally caught him in full view. He was just a regular guy, except he was hovering two feet in the air.

A thin line of shadow danced on the wall behind the figure, cast from the rope that he hung from. He'd made his noose from a thick coil of electrical wire, tied several times through a forced opening in the ceiling foundation. At first I was surprised the makeshift rope had taken the weight, but judging by his gaunt features being a locked in a classroom for weeks on end had helped him shed some of his extra baggage.

I stood and stared at the man for a good minute, trying not to contemplate the fact that I may well have sacrificed my two best friends for nothing. Then I remembered that somebody was missing. The kid.

It's not my place to judge the guy on his actions so I won't. The man was in charge of his child's safety and it was his decision, nobody else's. If anybodies to blame for this it's me. For not getting here fast enough, for fucking around at the petrol station. For not taking this shit storm seriously enough. I found the kid laying down on one side of the far side of the classroom, a blanket had been gently laid over him. Cause of death unknown, there was no blood and nothing to indicate an overdose. if I had to hazard a guess I'd say he'd been smothered with his own pillow, but that's pure speculation. What matters is the whole ordeal is over for him. He can rest easy now.

Resting on desk close to the window was a VHF radio which someone had bodged to hook it up to a battery powered charger. I was happy to find several packets of good-quality batteries nearby. I fiddled with it for a few moments and painfully realized that the bloke had taken his plea for help off of the air. He'd chosen his path somewhere in the last five or six hours. I shoved the radio away in frustration, flicking a button as I did so;

_' … third floor of St. Louis Catholic School and there's no more food. I told him it'd be okay. I lied and I said it would be okay. You have to find us. Anybody that can hear-'_

I hit the kill switch on the broadcast.

I was too late.


	15. 12092011 Part 2

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 1209/2011  
>Subject: Autumn<strong>

I feel like I need to apologize for that overly dramatic ending. But you can't argue against its effectiveness, right? If I can convey half of what I felt when I was stood there, contemplating the fall of man as the flickering candle entered its last moments of life, then I consider that an achievement.

And if not then whatever. Get over it.

I considered cutting the bloke down and laying him to rest next to his son, it would've been the right thing to do. But then I remembered the old saying that the right thing and the hardest thing are usually the same. And it would be fucking difficult to cut him down with a baseball bat.

Instead I started to salvage what I could from my piss poor situation. I had a quick fiddle with the VHF radio, swapping through channels to try and catch any other emergency broadcasts. It was the type of thing that Tom would've loved. With that sombre thought I dragged myself over to the window and pressed my face against it.

Zombies were funnelling out of the school gates and spilling into the village like a sea of seriously bad pollution. A few of the athletic types had wandered onto the schools playing field. I tapped absent mindedly on the window and considered my options. I could stay here, barricade the door and wait for Mo to find me.. If he was still alive. Or I could escape and try to find him and Thomas myself.. If they were still alive. Or I find myself a van and head on over to the secret military base at Starcross.. If it was still alive. I banged my head on the window and was seriously considering bursting into tears when out of the corner of my eye I saw the recently deceased body of a child sit up inside its blanket.

And just when I thought things couldn't get much worse, the candle flickered and died.

I literally freaked. Rushing backwards and tripping over a desk, landing flat on my ass. The sudden plunge into darkness caught me off guard, it's not that I'm afraid of the dark or anything; it's just that I'm afraid of being slowly eaten alive by a zombified midget. In retrospect I could've easily slipped out of the door without causing any fuss, but I've always had a problem with keeping my cool.

The baseball bat lay discarded some where on the floor and I wasn't in the mood to go looking for it. I backed myself up against a wall and made the decision to light up my phone, potentially draining the last of my battery juice but also allowing me to live for a few more moments. I shone the light to the back of the room where Zombie-Child bounced off of a desk with the blanket still hanging over him. He didn't react well to the light, instantly zoning in on me and readying himself to charge. Lucky for me he stepped on the discarded bat and toppled over. I jumped on the opportunity to dish out some of my trademark punishment.

I lifted my foot, ready to stomp the last remains of life out of the kid when the blanket slipped off of his head and he looked up at me with a near-perfect human face. He just looked so damn innocent. Cute little button nose, murky green, bloodshot eyes - well, the bloodshot gave away his corpsification a little bit, but other than that he was fresh out of hell.

Then he fucking went for me.

I hopped out of the way of his snapping little mouth and then pinned him to the floor with my foot, keeping it well away from his jaws. Even with no limit to his bodies supply of strength he was still a child with undeveloped muscles. I took a second or two to think up a kind yet fatal strategy for the little guy when I heard the sounds of a kerfuffle from down the hall, I desperately hoped that the door would hold whatever was out there.

Finally I moved my foot and snatched up the blanket, dropping my phone on the floor and letting the kid get to his feet. Then I threw the sheet over him and picked him up from behind in a bear hug, holding him tightly around the waist. It was a dirty tactic, I admit, but just a minute ago I'd been lamenting the loss of such a young soul, the whole apocalypse thing had hardened me, but not enough to dehumanize me. Not yet.

I shuffled over to the window, still wide open, just how I'd left it. From behind me I heard the scrape of the door being forced open. I ignored it to deal with the more immediate threat of the zombie child throwing a muffled tantrum in my arms. In a moment of pure dishonour I pitched the kid out of the window to the hard concrete two stories below, squeezing my eyes shut as he hit the ground.

I was kind of pleased with myself. His life was in gravities hands now, not mine. I could live with that. I turned from the window, ready to meet whoever had forced their way into my classroom. A single, solitary figure stood in the doorway, his mouth open and a look on his face that was one part disgust and one part grudging the respect.

It was Mo.

He pointed to the window questioningly. 'He started it.' was my immediate response. And it was damn true. Luckily a throaty sound from the still hanging father cut off any potential accusations. It caught Mo's attention. He stood staring at the flailing zombie, still suspended in mid-air. Slowly Mo pieced together just what had happened. Then he swore out loud and kicked a stool. At the same time the door barged open another zombie waded in.

I snatched up the bat and my phone, still shining in it's torch mode. Thankfully Mo took care of the intruder, wrapping his nunchucks around its throat and then swinging it head first into a wall. It was the most creative use of nunchucks I'd seen so far, and I'd seen a lot of nunchucking. I took a selfish second to deactivate my phone while Mo told me to hurry-the-expletive-up. I followed his advice and we took off through the school at a hasty trot, just like old times. I felt a few flashes of nostalgia as we travelled down various corridors, not from the human remains scattered along the floors, but from the school spirit posters, the water fountains and the rows of lockers.

Mo took the lead, I didn't stop to ask him how he'd manage to evade an entire swarm of zombies and then track me down without so much as a scratch on him, because telling that story would take far more words than Mo was willing to use. It was probably a better story in my head anyway. We took a different route, bypassing the gym and heading through the Geography block. We only had to take out one teenage trouble maker before we hit the library and its dismantled fire exit. I assumed it wasn't Mo who had knocked the steel door of its hinges, he was an angry person, but not 'The Incredible Hulk' type of angry. There were a few growlers lolly-gagging around the place, clearly violating the no-talking library rule (Which I assume also covered snarls, grunts and loud chewing), on a plus note a lot of them seemed preoccupied on eating a heap of something dead and meaty. It was a welcome distraction and it left us with just a few stragglers between ourselves and the exit.

The sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon, giving us enough light to do what needed to be done. A few swings of a bat and spins of a nunchuck later saw us trampling over them in no time and knocking over a book shelf or two in the process, I almost felt bad, but it's the year 2011, who seriously reads any more? I kicked a Sherlock Holmes collection out of my way for good measure as we reached the fire exit. I resisted taking a look at the diners, not wanting to know who or what they were lunching on, I'd reached my daily limit of seeing fucked up things.

Mo hopped over the rail of the fire exit and vaulted to the ground. I remember the last time I was on a fire exit, it wasn't pretty. I took the stairs one at a time, like a civilized person, and met Mo at the bottom. He was scouting the playing field, which was currently hosting the zombie Olympics. The original plan of releasing the locked up zombies into the wild had backfired. Without anything to get their attention they'd formed a loose chain around us, just waiting for us to fall into their sticky web. My intelligence far outranks that of a fly, so my plan didn't involve getting stuck in said web. Mo's brain, however, was having a bit of an off day and for some reason his plan was to sprint onto the football pitch and into the zombies.

I pretty much had no choice but to follow, albeit against my will. The short time I'd spent in the school on my lonesome had reminded me just how much I valued our shaky friendship. So follow him over the fence and into the deep I did. It turned out to be a pretty decent strategy, even slowed by our hefty rucksacks and poor conditioning we could still outrun any zombie in a hundred meter dash, and that's exactly what we did. The rucksacks came in handy for butting Z's out of the way, occasionally they'd latch on, unwilling to let us pass (Or gandalfing us, if you will), but Mo consistently had my back and vice versa. We worked in synergy. He'd brain the zombie hanging on to my sack, and I'd whistle for a Z's attention if he was hot on Mo's heels and then we'd leave them in the dirt.

We had a chance to catch our breath and evaluate the situation when we reached the end of the field. About a quarter of the zombie militia had called it quits, probably dazzled by our physical prowess. The rest of them weren't as easily turned away from a potential meal. Hell, with the sun creeping over the horizon they were probably preparing for breakfast. But I felt more like breaking faces than breaking my fast.

Still, it was almost always better to avoid confrontation when you could, so Me and Mo began weaving in and out of the streets. Taking a rough route back to the town centre and shouting Tom's name. Sure, we attracted unwanted attention, but before we even considered getting out of dodge we were going to make an active effort to locate our missing buddy. I'll admit Tom was the brains of our little operation. Without him prodding us in the right direction and keeping us just barely motivated, me and Mo would be running amok at the local super market, drinking all their expensive spirits whilst wearing women's clothing and playing baseball with mannequin heads. Don't tell me you've never fantasized about that.

Before The-Fucking-Of-Our-Sunday-Morning we had a solid game plan. Head to Starcross. Solve the mystery. Pat each other on the backs. Get drunk. Sure, we'd been thrown a side quest, but even so we had a direction and possibly some sort of salvation at the end of it. And this was all Tom's doing. So fuck no are we going to leave him behind. Not until I see him hobbling around with no arms, it was a heartbreakingly grizzly image, but it was something I needed. It was closure.

And with that decided we battled our way to the town centre. Only getting our hands dirty when we needed to. We developed a small fan club on our way there, a line of relentless zombies felt the need to follow our every step, ignoring our attempts to dissuade them with crude language and death threats. When we finally reached the village square things had escalated slightly. Walking corpses had formed a blockade behind us, giving us nowhere to go but forward. Except forward wasn't exactly an option. Either Tom's plan to lead the Zombies on a human egg-hunt had come to an abrupt end, or they just plain didn't give a shit. I hoped for the latter, because that meant Tom might still be alive somewhere. Our futures, however, didn't look quite as bright.

We crept up to the centre of the square where somebody had driven a Minibus into the statue that had once situated there, knocking it clean off its pedestal. In all honesty there wasn't much need for the creeping, the volume being thrown around by our followers was enough to alert the other lingering Z's that we were fresh out of the oven and just asking for a nibble. Even the alley way that we'd utilized for our last getaway was being guarded by a walking corpse. Our last option was the Minibus, hastily abandoned by its owner when the shit hit the fan.

Thankfully the door was hanging open, I hopped into the drivers seat and felt around for the keys. Not in the ignition, not hidden in the sun visor, not in the glove box. Who the fuck abandons a car and takes the keys with them? If I had the spare time I'd leave an angry sticky note calling the owner a complete dickwound. I shook my head at Mo as soon as he'd finished crushing the skull of the nearest zombie. Things were not looking good at all. In a last ditch effort to preserve our personal health we climbed on top of the Minibus. Under his breath I could just make out Mo spouting nonsense in his native language, I was hoping it was a damn good prayer because I hadn't yet pledged myself to any certain god, but if one was willing to help me out I certainly wouldn't be against sacrificing a small animal in their honour. Please?

And then it started to rain.

It wasn't the most helpful thing in the world, but in a way it helped us out. It started as a light drizzle just as the first line of Z's reached the Minibus. Then it really started hammering down, turning the cars exterior into a slippery mess. I used my natural agility to keep balance and avoid sliding off of the bus and into somebodies mouth, but it was still a struggle to stay upright whilst simultaneously swinging a heavy bat around to keep those mouths away from me. The rainfall had lubricated the cars bonnet, making it a challenge for the Z's to get a decent grip. It was to our favour that they didn't quite understand hand-eye-coordination.

We found ourselves making a valiant last stand. The troubling thing about the valiant last stand is that its destined to fail, so engaging in one means that you're essentially dooming yourself to an unsatisfying end. So it didn't feel nice at all. Mo was in charge of the back half of the roof, I couldn't even risk glancing back for fear that I'd lose my footing or be pulled clean off the bus. I was madly swinging the bat, crushing hands, taking heads off and putting dents in the front of the Minibus until my arms started to feel like they were being spit roasted over a trash-can-fire. I hadn't done this much physical activity since my school years. And no I'm not talking about masturbation - I was once a pretty decent tennis player, believe it or not.

Eventually a hand lashed out and grabbed hold of my ankle. I dropped to one knee and twisted to see my attacker. He was a lanky bastard, and he looked mighty hungry, so I fed him the blunt end of my bat and ended up knocking out the majority of his yellowy-brown teeth. He quickly disappeared beneath the many waves of undead, who were utilizing every fallen friend as a step ladder to the Minibus's roof. It was an unintentional but genius tactic that would surely lead to my downfall. And down I fell. Honestly, I just gave up and knelt down in the centre of the roof. A moment later I felt Mo slump back against me and together we sat there, back to back, united in defeat.

Rain clouds had swallowed up the sun, but rays of light still peaked through to highlight the armada of claw shaped hands, fighting amongst each other to be the first to drag us down into the swarm. I found my self examining one of the locals a few lines back from the car, desperately trying to push his way through the crowd and satisfy his single primal urge. A school tie hung loosely from his neck and part of his bottom lip had been chewed off. A raindrop splashed off of his forehead as he squeezed closer to the minibus through the bustling thong of undead. He locked eyes with me and redoubled his efforts, using his small stature to inch closer and closer. I completely phased out, letting the constant moans and snarls of the surrounding masses blend into one combined and continual drone. If you ignored the smell and closed your eyes it was almost peaceful. The only thing ruining it was the obnoxious honking of a car horn a couple of streets over. Way to spoil a moment a tranquillity.

Mo shook me out of my reverie, his eyes as wide as they were dark and unforgiving. Then I heard it again.

BEEPITY-BEEP-BEEP.

Holy mother of goatshit. It was Tom, it had to be. And if I knew Tom he'd hijacked himself a shiny new vehicle and was ready to spring his well thought rescue plan and save the day, along with our lives.

I could've hugged Mo, but I didn't of course. It was neither the time nor the place for sporadic bromance. Instead I looked around for a way to let Tom know our position. Ideally I would've liked to set every single zombie on fire to make a giant, stress-relieving signal fire, but I didn't have the tools on hand for such a feat. Instead I refocused my attention on the Minibus. I stood up and looked down at the roof window. Bingo. I grabbed Mo and ordered him to repel borders. Some of the Z's were using their peers as stepping stones to hoist themselves up to the edge of the car roof. I tried to shift the window open, but it was locked, naturally. I didn't mind so much because it meant I got to smash the window through with my bat, which is always a barrel of fun. I unlatched the window and threw it open, just big enough for my to drop my rucksack into the opening and then slip through myself after a last look at Mo (Kicking ass as always). Once inside it was just the simple of matter repeatedly bashing the car horn and hoping to hell that it got Toms attention.

Mere seconds passed before I heard his reply, two long blasts from his horn. I gave the car roof a victory fist bump, roughly where I guessed Mo's foot would be. Help was on its way at last. Although I had a minor problem with the car door still hanging wide open. I noticed it at the same time as somebody else, or somezombie else, if you will. It was my old friend, the one with the school tie and half-chewed lip. Except he wasn't looking very friendly.

I hefted my bat as another cars headlamps suddenly shone through the vans window, partially blinding me. I was still quick enough to bring the bat up and shove it into Little Half-Lip's mouth. Holding him at bay whilst Thomas skidded around the town centre, honking his horn and causing all sorts of havoc. Out of the window I glimpsed a sweet looking SUV, with plenty of lounging room, knocking down Z's like there was no tomorrow. I gave my zombie a boot to the chest to shove him back out of the car, then I quickly grabbed the door and slammed it shut, locking the van down. I made my way back to the ceiling window and grabbed my rucksack, ready to hitch myself up and onto the roof. It was then that I saw Tom's SUV swing to a stop next to our Minibus, a second later Mo took a running jump off of the bus, landing hard on the SUV. Before I could even poke my head out of the roof window Tom had already switched to reverse and began to pull away with Mo holding on for dear life. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I wasn't about to let Tom drive away thinking that it had just been Mo stranded atop the Minibus, so I barged out the emergency exit at the back end and into the village square.

Tom had done a brilliant job of causing general chaos. Z's were scattered around trying to figure out where their breakfast had gotten too. Some lay broken on the floor from Tom's erratic driving. Others were pointedly looking at me and drooling. I backed away, feebly swinging my bat to keep the closest of them from lunging for me. The red lights of the SUV faded away into the distance, I wondered how far Tom would go before he let Mo into the car and gave him a chance to tell him that I was still back here. This would be the first place they looked, but I sure as hell couldn't stay here with this amount of zombie activity.

I made a break for it.

I dashing towards the alley way and damn near decapitated the zombie that was hovering around at the entrance. A couple of them made a grab for me on my way there but I dodged, ducked, dipped, dived and dodged out of the way. I saw a few familiar sights down the alley way, I almost felt like the day was repeating itself. But on my way down the shady lanes I saw something that I'd missed the first time. An emergency ladder hung down the side of a block of flats, not unlike the flats that I used to procrastinate in during my student years.

I stopped dead in my tracks. My potential options span around my head. Higher ground could mean a safe place to hide, recuperate and wait for Tom and Mo to find me. Or it could be a death trap. But in all honesty, I couldn't spend much more time on the ground avoiding the Z's, there were thousands of them stumbling around and sooner or later the exhaustion would get me and I'd slip up. And right now I didn't have Tom or Mo to bail me out. I was on my own.

When I heard the footsteps behind me I made a snap decision. I grabbed onto the ladder and began a slow climb, almost losing my footing on a few occasions thanks to the constant rainfall. Beneath me were the snapping jaws of a dozen Z's, willing me to make a fatal mistake. I couldn't help but look down and give them the finger before reaching the final story of the building. I climbed over the railing and pressed my face up against the window. The first thing I noticed was a line of dead cactus' along the back of the room, very modern. Then I saw the 50 inch flatscreen TV. Well paint me jealous.

I knocked, for the sake of caution. No immediate response, no figures lurking in the shadows and no visible signs of struggle. As in blood splatters, makeshift weapons lying about the place, that sort of stuff. When I was absolutely almost-sure that nothing was going to pounce on me I took a step back and smashed the window open. I admit the sound of shattering glass was starting to get a little repetitive, but it was the quickest way, probably.

I explored the flat in its entirety, and you know what? It was damn cosy, as well as zombie free. There was a mighty bad smell coming from the fridge, so I boycotted the kitchen all together. I had enough food and water to last me until Mo and Tom found me anyway.

And they will find me. They have too. It's only fair.

After scanning the flat for lurkers I stepped back out onto the emergency exit. Most of the zombies remained at the bottom of the ladder, it seemed I was going to find out how long their attention spans were.

I spent an hour on that exit. I couldn't see much thanks to the surrounding buildings, so I kept my ears alert for any engine sounds or car horns. But there was nothing. Perhaps Tom and Mo had hunkered down in a safe house like me. I was sure they'd resume their search after they'd had a couple of hours rest. In fact I was positive of it. Not a doubt in my mind.

That was nineteen hours ago.

I've been awake two hours, and I admit that a slight mingling of doubt has been gnawing away at me in that time. What if Mo had just plain forgotten to tell Tom to turn back? What if he'd told Tom, and then Tom had refused, fearing that I'd been overrun? What if I'd just imagined Mo and Tom, and they didn't actually exist? Whoa, I think I need to stop considering possibilities in case I convince myself that I'm actually just a repeating glitch in the matrix. It's happened before and it ain't pretty.

It's still the early hours of the morning. I'd fallen asleep on the couch at roughly 8am yesterday and slept a full cycle. I still feel exhausted, mentally and physically. I had to use parts of my brain I didn't even know I had to recall yesterdays events in such detail. But hey, shit like this needs to be written down and saved for future generations to scrutinize and write essays about. Maybe when the shit storm passes somebody will find this and I'll become a legend.

Or the world will just end and nobody will know I'd ever existed.

Either way. I'm hungry as buggery.

Another update after breakfast. I promise.

Luigi out.


	16. 12092011 Part 3

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: <strong>1209/2011**  
>Subject: <strong>Fade to Black<strong>  
><strong>

4% Battery remaining.

Well, it seems like this might be my last post for the foreseeable future.

It's not you, it's me. I'm just not ready for this kind of commitment, you know?

That and it turns out when Mo offloaded the rucksacks from the back of our broken down Jeep he just so happened to get mine mixed up with Tom's, probably because he's an asshat. So now instead of having an abundance of batteries, an emergency phone charger, a fully stocked first aid kit and a generally positive outlook on life, I have maps. Just maps. They aren't even the good kind of maps, with treasure and pirate caves and whatnot. They're all complicated and military-like. I couldn't look at them without feeling bitter.

I guess I should be grateful. I've got food and water along with a pretty nifty bachelors pad complete with a darn comfy couch (I couldn't bring myself to sleep in a dead man's bed). I've got my health, or what's left of it. And I have a baseball bat, so I can vent my anger if I need to.

What I don't have is my friends. And it's really bumming me out. The last time I'd felt this lonely was when I accidentally fell out of my canoe when I was out sailing with my foster club and then promptly washed ashore. I'd spent the next four hours making a dreadlock wig out of seaweed and converting a burnt out car into a makeshift fortress before they'd found me and carted me away, kicking and screaming.

I kind of feel like kicking and screaming right now. But for the sake of getting all this typed and logged in the next few minutes, I'll resist.

On that note: 3% Battery remaining.

So today was fun. I had a warm breakfast. Then I hung out on the fire exit for an hour, listening out for any signs of Tom's recently stolen SUV tearing through the quiet streets of Frome. There wasn't any. The only sounds I could hear were the stagnant moans from the lurking undead. The bottom of the fire exit was clear, so if I ever got bored of free loading, or stopped being in denial about my friends abandoning me, I could make a clean getaway.

The thought of travelling two hundred miles on my lonesome is an unpleasant one and something I refuse to consider for at least another two days. For all I knew the SUV had been so low on petrol that they decided to refill it, knowing that I was perfectly capable of handling myself on my own in a town populated by zombies. Or maybe they'd returned to the crashed minibus and left me a message telling me where I could meet them. Both of these are definite possibilities, not wishful thinking or plain old chicken-shit cowardice. I promise.

After thinking things over I decided to research the flats former owner by going through his personal belongings. In a way it was a breach of privacy, but I figured the guy was probably zombified by now and would eventually try to eat me. So it was more like a pre-emptive strike.

He was a handsome lad. Roughly in his early thirties judging by framed picture of him and an elderly woman that hung on the wall. And by the general mess and abundance of football posters and memorabilia I'd guess he was single and ready to mingle. I was happy to find out that we shared a shoe size, so I liberated a pair of his boots to replace my tattered converse all-stars. I also borrowed a torch and two packs of batteries, a couple of pairs of woolly socks and a winter coat that was a size too small, but would still keep me warm and less wet in the coming months.

England is well known for it's grey demeanour. If we're lucky we might get two weeks of good, honest summer before we get plunged back into the cold depression. It doesn't even snow in December, it just rains harder.

I hadn't even considered the ball-ache of a zombie infested winter until yesterday when it began to rain on my parade. We'd been surviving in a summer-to-autumn transition so far, where it's isn't hot but it isn't quite cold either. It was good weather for cross country scavenging. And it had come to an abrupt end.

2% Battery remaining. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I guess it's time to power down and make a cup of tea and some lunch. Maybe flick through a magazine and do some other normal things to help me forget that I'm living in a society of walking corpses.

I probably won't be here long anyway. In my mind Mo and Tom are finishing their late breakfast after a refreshing snooze and will be making their way back into town at any moment. In the mean time, I've got a date with the fire exit.

And on that sombre and somewhat sexually frustrating note, I'll take my leave. For how long I'm not yet sure, that's down to Mo and Tom and how dedicated they are to regaining my friendship.

That's right. I refuse to give up hope.

Luigi out.


	17. 17092011

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 1709/2011  
>Subject: One Day at a Time<strong>

I've given up hope.

That was the first thing I thought when I woke up on the 15th of September. Three nights after breaking into and borrowing my new flat.

Those last three nights had been spent on the couch. The last three days had been spread between the fire escape, where I stood and watched the clouds and zombies pass by, and the lounge area, where I like to lounge. And that is literally all I did.

That morning I finally came to terms with the fact that Mo and Thomas had been permanently delayed on their way to rescue me. Which I totally forgive them for. Sometimes life throws you a curve ball. And you can either hit that curve ball with a baseball bat, or let it overrun and eventually devour you. And if those are my options, I think I'll keep swinging.

I spent two days putting together a 150 piece puzzle of the Clifton Suspension Bridge before realizing that twelve of the pieces were missing. Then I spent most of next day being bored shitless, so I cracked out Tom's maps of Exmouth and the south coast. I had no doubt after searching for me for hours that Thomas and Mo would begin the road trip to Starcross to soothe their broken hearts. It was what we had planned all along, before the Frome Catholic School excursion went horribly wrong. Starcross was easily my best chance of rendezvousing with my buddies and perhaps what was left of the British government and military. And if those things weren't there, at least I could pass the time by building sand castles and eating chips out of paper cones. The maps only covered the south coast, so I would have to rely on my wits and natural coordination to travel south until I hit the ocean, I'd also probably need a new automobile.

It helped that I was living in an abandoned town, full of SUV's, pick-up trucks and land rovers. If I was a car thief I'd be rolling around the hills in a new set of wheels every day. But I'm not. I'm a regular human being with regular human being abilities, like nose picking and channel surfing. I don't know the first thing about hot wiring a car, or picking locks. Those kind of abilities are for convicts and secret agents and I am neither of those things. What I am is desperate, cold and alone. Which is a good incentive to do something stupid.

This time I resisted.

In the morning I began the planning process. I wouldn't be rushing in blind this time, I was going to do Tom proud with all sorts of strategizing and whatnot. I even found myself some tweezers and a pair of scissors which I quickly put to surgical use. I won't go into detail about the disturbing process of removing the uneven stitching from across my stomach, but it's not something I want to have to repeat in the future. Next on the agenda was filling the remaining space in Tom's rucksack with useful things like batteries, tea bags and winter socks. It was during this scavenging process that I came across a depleted iPod, which made a semi-lit lightbulb pop up above my head. It wasn't long before I found the charging lead and a dock. I knew he was an apple guy! The dock was useless so I chucked it. The lead would be instrumental to my new plan to get my phone up and running. All I needed now was a car charger adapter. Sure, I needed a car too, but it was only a matter of time until I found a hastily abandoned vehicle with the keys still in the ignition, or tucked neatly behind the sun shade.

I ripped the flat apart. I emptied every drawer I could find in the kitchen and the bathroom, I even searched the TV unit. I went to town, searching every nook and cranny. I was momentarily distracted by the playboy magazine's I found stashed behind the microwave. It's good to know that I retain my bestial urges even with the world crashing down around me. From there I ransacked bedroom. I started to slow down at this point, realizing that there was nothing in the flat to suggest that the owner had ever owned or driven a car.

I put my phone-charging plan on the backburner and reverted back to my original getting-the-hell-out-of-here plan. With my sack packed and my woolly socks pulled over my feet, I temporarily exited the flat via fire exit and began the slow climb upward to the roof. I passed a window or two on my way up, at first I snuck looks into my neighbour's flats to compare decor's but when I saw an undead duo with their faces pressed up against the glass window I decided to avert my eyes for the rest of the climb.

I felt a dull throb of achievement as I jumped the railing onto the flat roof of the tower block. I'd always wanted to climb something big like Mount Everest or the Eiffel Tower, and now I'd done it. I inhaled a few lungfuls of cold, fresh air. Then I put my hands on my hips and looked around at the great, inspiring village of Frome.

It was full to the brim with Z's. They were absolutely everywhere. Hobbling in and out of the local fruit and veg shop. Waddling around the beer garden of the town's favourite pub. I even spotted a far away children's park where a single, short figure was tangled around the roundabout, slowly rotating. It was a sight for sore eyes and an unwelcome reminder of just how quickly my country had fallen to pieces.

I made note of the closest exits out of the village, then I chose the least populated of them and plotted an escape route in my head. There were a few cars along the way that would warrant a quick search to see if they came complete with the car keys and were still in working order. For the most part it would be a mad sprint in one direction. I didn't look forward to it, but then again it didn't seem like something I should complain about considering I'd spent the last few days sat on my ass doing puzzles.

Once I was safely back inside my flat I cooked up an entire 24-Hour ration pack on Tom's stove. I particularly enjoyed the Beef Stroganoff. I ended up with a lonely sachet of cheese spread and nothing to spread it on, so I left it in the middle of the coffee table as a 'Thankyou' gift to the owner of the flat for his generosity.

When the clock struck four I shouldered my rucksack and hefted my aluminium baseball bat. I said a silent goodbye and gave a salute to the dusty picture that hung from the wall of the former resident and his elderly relative. Then I left.

As soon as my feet touched the ground I felt a familiar tension creep its way inside of me. I realized then that it was something I'd been missing since I'd locked myself away in the safehouse, I fought down the urge to scramble back up the fire exit and curl up on the sofa bed. For now there was nothing I could do about it but accept that it was with me and let it burrow into my bones. The hum of anxiety had its benefits too. It heightened my already sensitive senses, turning me into a jumpy little bastard. A boot scrape, a throaty rumble, a waft of decay up my right nostril. Each one set my alarms ringing as I jogged down the back alleys of Frome once more, this time helped along by the natural light which by no means made anything less gruesome. I openly grimaced when I passed the boot that Mo had knocked over, still on the ground, an amputated foot sat snugly inside it.

I exited the alley to find a small scattering of Undead haplessly roaming around in front of me. The first of them snapped his eyes to mine and coughed up a mouthful of stomach bile. I didn't stop to see who would be next to notice my presence. I tore past them and onto the high street, charging opposite a familiar looking bus stop which had an advertisement on display for Cars 2, a film I would never get to see. Living in a zombie apocalypse is depressing, but not knowing what was going to happen to Lightening McQueen and the gang was a real slap in the face. I didn't have to linger on that upsetting thought for long because I had a whole lot of zombies to dodge around. Road safety regulations were clearly not much of a priority these days, Z's loitered in the middle of the street in small groups. I found myself hopping onto and over abandoned cars, ducking beneath outstretched arms and shoving bodies out of my way when they wandered in too close. These methods could only get me so far and eventually the high street just became too hot. The excitement had caused zombie shoppers and storekeeps to filter out of the surrounding buildings, pushing the other Z's closer to the centre of the road to form a ragged wall ahead of me.

I dipped into a narrow side road lined with terraced housing and badly parked cars. It was a place of carnage; doors hanging open, windows smashed, a semi-demolished ambulance beneath a fallen tree. Carnage. The gridlocked traffic was vital to my quick getaway. I found myself running along the tops of the cars to avoid being mauled, which still offered its own hazards. My foot eventually found a sunroof and I dropped out of the air, instantly glad that there was nobody around to witness such a blunder. I pulled myself out pretty sharpish and continued at a run, keeping an eye out for other hazards.

The next quarter of an hour went similarly. Every now and then I would be cut off by a small swarm of Z's, triggering another sudden change in direction. The mental map I had drawn in my head atop the tower block had crumbled to dust, leaving me to act on instinct alone. A twinge of pain in my side warned me that my body was clearly objecting to this sudden burst of physical activity. The heavy coat and fully packed rucksack didn't do much to help either. I could feel sweat streaking down my back despite the bitter cold, and my breathing quickly became a ragged mess.

I started to alternate from a side-splitting sprint to a light-but-brisk jog. It was the only way to stay conscious while under constant pressure to keep ahead of growing mob. I did my best to keep to one direction, desperate to reach the outskirts and disappear into the countryside. This decision eventually sent me down a cul-de-sac, almost a clear dead end except for a single, narrow lane between two houses. I didn't fancy my chances against whoever was following me, so I set off down the lane. It was empty, thankfully, but it led to the edge of a steep ravine, at the foot of which was a sad looking construction site full of foundations for houses that would never be built. There was also a smattering of undead lazing around in high-visibility jackets and safety helmets. The slope beneath was mainly loose rocks and pebbles, so I planted my ass firmly on the ground and pushed off.

I didn't need to look back to know that I was being followed. A cascade of detached debris followed me alongside several rolling corpses. My skid turned into a barrel roll as I reached the foot of the slope. I ungraciously landed and got to my feet as the first construction worker made a grab for me. I'd somehow managed to keep hold of my bat during the fall, so I shoved him into a pile of rubble, took a personal moment to adjust my underwear which had ridden up during the ride and then shot off towards the open gate of the site.

I passed a cement mixer truck and didn't even consider checking to see if it had the keys in the ignition, I was fairly certain that even a zombie could outrun that vehicle. Instead I headed for a makeshift staff parking area where only three cars remained; two of which were tangled around each other in a broken mess. The third was a capable looking Citroen C4. And it was currently occupied, which for once was a good thing. It meant that the poor fella had been interrupted during his getaway process. The interruption itself consisted of a mostly eaten right arm, a severely chewed right shoulder and a missing ear, which I could easily see due to his face being pressed up against the window. I opened the door and stepped out of the way as the corpse crumpled into the floor, helped along by a little assistance from my baseball bat. I was already inside the car with my rucksack stowed on the passenger seat when it began to pull itself back up to confront me about the impolite car theft. The key still dangled from its hole, I fumbled for it as one of the builders threw himself onto the bonnet, then I keyed the ignition.

This wasn't a cheap horror movie, so the car kicked into life on the first try. However, my overeager throttling as I put my foot down caused a jolt and the car stalled, so I keyed the ignition again before finally pulling away, taking it as slow as possible without letting the encroaching horde catch up to me. When I had my footwork under control I sent the car into a skid to shake the builder from my bonnet, he landed head first onto the concrete, which wasn't much of a victory since he still had his helmet on. I didn't stop to ask if he was okay - I swerved onto a narrow lane, kicking up a screen of dust and tiny rocks behind me as I hurtled away from the site.

A sigh of relief squeezed its way out of my lungs as the town of Frome shrank away behind me. It had been touch and go for a while back there but somehow I'd made it out of the frying pan. Now I just had to wade through the rest of England without getting parts of me bitten off, which was easier said than done. I drove down a windy lane that arced around the town, keeping a desperate eye out for any signs of Mo, Tom, their SUV or some kind of camp site. Anything to tell me that they were still alive and on the move. During this time I pondered the future of the human race, fondly recalled dunking biscuits into cups of steaming hot tea whilst watching Cartoon Network and also questioned why I was still alive when plenty of more-capable human beings had met a sudden and undignified end. I started to seriously consider the fact that I may have my very own Guardian Angel. Or perhaps it was because I was lucky enough to be sharing a flat with a certified zombie slayer when the virus had swept through the country.

I'd managed to circle around to a familiar looking grove. I pulled up next to a large stretch of greenery and wound my window down. For a moment I sat there and listened to the flowing river. This had been our last stop before we entered the town, I could still make out the fresh tire indents through the grass, leading up to the mile stone. I exited my new car and walked to the edge of the stream. It flowed east, connecting with the river that passed through Frome. I dipped my hand in the water, it was almost painfully cold. I splashed some of it on my face, rubbing off the dust that had settled onto my skin over the past weeks. I was thankful that I was naturally resistant to my own odour. I remember camping out for weekend a few years ago at a festival headlined by Black Sabbath, upon returning to my orphanage I was told that I smelt like a dead rodent that had been stuffed with a smaller dead rodent. I couldn't imagine how I smelt now, covered in dirt, grime, dried blood and other bodily fluids that were best kept inside the body. Smashing skulls is a dirty business.

After letting the last bead of water drip from my chin, I stood up and made ready to depart. It was then I noticed the torn remains of a Mars Bar wrapper caught between several reeds on the sloping bank of the stream. The cogwheels in my brain went into overload. Mars Bars. Mo was in charge of the Mars Bars. Mo had been asleep when we stopped here. Mo rarely eats in his sleep, but when he does he remembers to deposit the wrapper in our designated litter zone. He only littered when he was conscious and feeling bitter. Mo always felt biter. Mo had been here. Recently.

It was a stretch, that wrapper could have been here since the dawning of time. Or at least since the dawning of the mass production of chocolate bars. But it also made sense in a Thomas-esque way. We had stopped here before getting split up, we hadn't discussed a potential meeting place in case one of us had gotten lost during the mission (which, reflecting back upon, was pretty stupid of us), but this place was ideal. Not too far from the village, but not close enough to warrant a high zombie activity. I walked back to the car, examining the tire tracks as I did so. It had been a fair few days since we stopped here in the Jeep. I was no Bear Grylls, but these tracks looked more recent. I looked around for another sign, anything to confirm that my friends had waited here for me, tears running down their cheeks, barely able to sleep for fear that their dreams would be filled with my dismembered body parts. With that grizzly image in mind, my eyes locked onto the milestone, and I smiled.

It was a clever use of electrical tape, I had to admit.

A wonky star of David had been stuck to the milestone, followed by a large cross. It was tough code to crack, but in the end I decided it meant that Tom and Mo had reluctantly continued the journey to Starcross, where they would wait for me with open arms and a bag of Mars Bars. I appreciated that they had stayed here and waited for me for at least a little while before assuming I was completely capable of traversing the land on my lonesome. It meant a lot that they had such a high opinion of my abilities. I returned to my new Citroen. It was a 2004 model and I was fairly certain it could get me where I needed to go in less than a day, as long as I didn't stop to save a surrounded family, or try and rescue a cat stuck in a tree. I'd leave those sorts of things to the people who gave a shit. Currently I'm all out of shits to give.

I sat there and listened to the running water for a long while. Then I got Hungry, so I filled myself up on some pasta and meatballs that tasted like processed cardboard. By the time I had finished the sun was beginning to bail out to the other side of the planet, so I reclined my chair back and kicked my feet up onto the dash. For the next thirteen hours I flickered in and out of sleep, dreaming of being chased by Bob the Builder and playing Operation with Lightening McQueen. It would be another day before I managed to get my phone fully charged and have these events electronically scribbled down. Things were about to get pretty depressing.

But I'll cover that after breakfast.

'Till next time.

Luigi Out.


	18. 17092011 Part 2

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 1709/2011  
>Subject: Until the Next Goodbye<strong>

Where was I? Oh yeah. The place where the rivers meet. Or, the place where Mo and Thomas had waited a few hours before leaving me to my uncertain doom.

I'm not bitter. Honest.

I had a little trouble getting comfortable enough to fall asleep. Not because of the car, (These car seats we're fucking angelic compared to the Jeep.) but because I was parked out in the open and most definitely on my own. From now on I wouldn't have Tom and Mo to rely on to share the look-out duty. Or the driving duty. Or the washing and cleaning duty. Or Mars bar duty. Holy shit, if I thought moving into my first flat was a lifestyle change then this was going to absolutely ruin me. On the positive side, I could walk around naked again. I wouldn't actually do this, because of the economy crisis and everything. But I could. And that's all that matters.

From my starting point I knew that Frome was to my east, which left two directions; North and South. I hadn't a clue which way was which, so I just picked a direction and stuck with it, almost entirely confident that it was probably south. A compass would've been pretty useful at that moment, the one I'd sort-of-stolen from the farmhouse had perished alongside the Jeep. There was a compass app on my phone, but at that point it was still dead and I'd never tried it without a Wi-Fi connection (Something we'd been living without for a few weeks now).

I found myself travelling along a lovely little country road. Devoid of all life, be it beastly, human or zombified. It was pretty peaceful. I listened to the gentle static of the radio after unsuccessfully flicking through all of the channels. Then I began to gently tap the steering wheel to the rhythm of 'Seven Nation Army', then I started to hum the tune, eventually hitting the guitar solo and going into a full on drum solo along the dashboard.

Then the car started beeping at me in perfect harmony to the face-melting drum solo. It was like the car itself was genuinely impressed with my percussion skills. Or maybe, as I quickly realized, I was so dangerously low on petrol that the reserve light had began to violently flash and make obnoxious noises.

I shook my head in exasperation and ceased rocking out. Who drives to work in a car with no petrol? Honestly, why anyone would risk being stranded at work I could not fathom. It was bad enough actually showing up there in the first place.

And that is the thrilling tale of how my new car shuddered to a halt after a mere twenty-six minutes of driving.

I pulled over at a junction on the side of the road that had been dug out of the surrounding embankment. They had these dotted around the place in case you came face-to-face with a combine harvester or a tractor. Then you just had to reverse half a mile, often in the pouring rain, until you could pull over and let them pass.

So I exited my brand new vehicle in the middle of nowhere. I didn't know how long a trek I was facing to the closest petrol station, but I figured if I continued in one direction I was bound to find one eventually. I took the keys with me, along with my baseball bat and my rucksack. It would slow me down a little, but if I got separated or lost then I'd sure as hell appreciate that I'd brought it along. Lastly, I checked the car boot because, well, you never know, some people keep a spare jerry can full of fuel for these types of situations. The previous owner was not one of those people. He instead kept muddy football boots, old newspapers and an abundance of coat hangers. And I'll never know why.

A minor case of the jitters snuck upon me as I began my journey into the great outdoors. The great outdoors is aptly named, because it's pretty great. It's also quite tranquil, and at the same time moderately terrifying. The outdoors is vast, not unlike the zombie population lately, so there's a pretty big chance that I'll run into a Z or twelve on my travels. I made it about a half mile before I waltzed past a charming little cottage. It was neatly tucked behind an ancient looking spiked fence that was separating myself from an abundance of zombificated elderly folk. It took a few moments for them to notice me, and it took the same amount of time for the rancid smell of deterioration to sneak its way into my nostrils along with the sound of several hundred tiny flies buzzing around. I quickly found the gate and made sure it was suitably locked. I had no doubts that its key was in one of the Z's pockets, but I was fairly confident that they have no clue how the unlocking process worked.

My next encounter with the undead was a little more nauseating. I thought I could make out a shimmer of movement on the horizon - my eye sight wasn't a particular strength of mine. At first I dismissed it as a trick of the light, or a grazing farm animal. But the image grew steadily clearer the closer I got. I was approaching a zombie in mid-feed.

I made it within ten yards of the thing before the wind picked up and sent me a welcoming waft of its revolting aroma. I'd just found out firsthand what rotten meat smelt like after it had been filtered through a defective digestive system. The Z's burgundy chinos were bulging with a heavy abundance of...

Holy shit I don't want to think about it. Please don't make me.

In the seconds it took to clamp a hand over my nose, the zombie finally took notice of me, taking the time to look up from its feast and lock its eyes to mine. I tried to look threatening, casually spinning my baseball to let it know that its second life was about to come to a sudden end. But honestly, it didn't seem to care. It continued to gulp down mouthfuls of stale flesh, not bothering to chew or wipe the dripping layer of dark, brown blood from its mouth. I dropped my gaze to the mangled body it had chosen as its breakfast. There wasn't a whole lot left of it, at least not enough tell what gender or star sign they might've been. Most of its torso had been swallowed into the Z, who didn't seem like the sharing type - I could tell by its swelling gut, the previously slim waistline being stretched to its maximum capacity of human flesh.

You could say I was completely disgusted, but that would be a slight understatement. I vented my disgust by taking its fucking head off with my bat.

It seemed to sense what was about to happen at the last moment, abandoning its meal as I stepped into the swing zone and making a feeble attempt at charging me. The recently consumed body parts threw it off balance as it scrambled up to meet me in hand to hand combat. I brought my bat down directly onto its skull, forcing the creature to its knees. The blow split its cranium and after a silent moment it toppled over onto the floor, leaking unattractive fluids from all cavities.

I moved on. At first the road out of Frome was quite pleasant but then it began to shrink into the sort of narrow country lane that I'd started to despise. A heap of overgrowth grew out of each side of the road, trapping me in the centre. It was a serious pain if you were driving, not being able to see over the hedges at what would be hurtling around a corner towards you. And it was a double pain when you were on foot amidst a corpse-filled crisis. I could be a couple of feet away from a zombie and never even know it, depending on which way the wind was blowing - I was rapidly developing a pretty killer sense of smell.

On the rare occasions that the under-brush thinned away I was happy to find that I was almost entirely on my own. I could make out a fair few farmhouses in the distance amongst the fields of untended crops. From the distance I couldn't make see any Z's, but I had a feeling they were down there, rummaging through the cupboards and roaming through the cornrows, desperately searching for some kind of meaty substance.

Eventually I my met my first junction, which presented me with two options. The first went against everything I believed in as a student of Thomas' school of zombie survival. It was a long, wide main road. I approached it with caution to get a better look and instantly spotted a half dozen Z's meandering around the abandoned cars. In one direction was an overturned lorry. In the other was a ten car pileup, complete with zombified limbs sticking out of the gaps.

My other option was a tiny dirt path which cut its own groove through a secluded field. I had no idea where it would take me, but I wasn't feeling up for wading along the main road whilst knee deep in zombies. I took the path.

It was a wise choice. The only problem I ran into was a small tractor that had careened off of the path and into a shallow ditch. The passenger had died on impact after he chose to not wear his seatbelt. That'll learn him. Walking through the wilderness wasn't a brilliant way to find a petrol station, so I was rehashing my original plan and seriously considering raiding the next farmhouse I saw for any spare canisters of petrol they had sitting around. The plan was a good one, and I was patting myself on the back as the path wound around in a semi-circle and opened back onto the main road.

It seemed that fate wanted me to risk the danger. And I wasn't about to argue with fate. I strode onto the road, baseball bat held at the ready and my nasal radar ready to sniff out any lurkers. It took me about three seconds to find the first, five seconds for the second and six seconds for the third. They were all fairly close, and they had one striking similarity. They had gaping holes in their foreheads.

I found more bodies as I cautiously wandered out into the road. The air was thick with the smell of death, mingled with burnt rubber and smoke. Like a bloodhound I followed the burning smell around a curve in the road, and eventually I found two things. The first was a traditional English pub called the 'Masons Arms', the lack of originality always irked me when it came to these things. I'd probably seen about twelve 'Mason Arms' in my life time, yet I still had no idea who Mason was. Or what was so damn special about his arms.

The second thing I saw was a thoroughly smashed up car, just as I had suspected.

A pair of skid marks led up to a solid stone wall. The solidity had been put to the test however, as a car had plunged directly through it, caving in the bonnet and issuing a steady stream of smoke from the demolished engine. As I always do, I approached it with extreme caution. Wreckages usually meant corpses, and corpses often get up and start biting things in this strange new world we live in. There was another murdered corpse close to the car, I was starting to think somebody had been here already, getting their hands dirty.

I was right to be cautious. I poked my head through the driver's window to check the damage, and instantly recoiled when I came face to face with a live and kicking zombie driver. It gnashed at me from where it was sat, held back by its seat belt. I took a few paces back and examined the thing, it still looked fairly human-like, perhaps it hadn't been dead that long. I wondered if it had died in the crash before turning, or if it had turned whilst driving and then, due to a sudden inability to operate the car, had plummeted into the wall in defiance. I was considering making a complete inspection, and whilst caught up in my thoughts I failed to notice the door of the Masons Arms open and close. What I succeeded to notice was the sound of rushing footsteps and then:

'Get away from the focken' car, yeh prick.'

I'm not sure what I'd done to warrant such hostility. But this fella seemed a bit out of it when I turned around and found myself staring at the pointy end of a combat knife.

I stepped the f*ck away from the car, happy to avoid a shanking. Then I opened my mouth to question his unwarranted rudeness.

'Shut the feck up, drop the focken' bat and give me yer backpack.'

I didn't feel entirely comfortable about this. For one, it wasn't really a backpack, it was a rucksack. I let him off for that one, because his knife didn't look like it was about to point anywhere else but at my facial region. Usually I'd feel a bit peeved at being threatened for no reason, but I kept my calm. This guy looked like he was in a seriously bad state. He was sweating heavily, and constantly fidgeting. His eyes were red and puffy and the hand gripping the knife was shaking pretty bad. The first thing that came to mind was smack-addict. Which was forgivable, heroin does take the edge off in these kinds of situation. But then my eyes settled on his right arm. Just below his shoulder was a deep gouge surrounded by shreds of flesh. It looked like a pretty convincing bite mark.

I said as much to him. Perhaps it wasn't a great idea, but I figured I should probably let him know that he'd been bitten by a zombie.

He didn't take the news well, he shook the knife around and swore a lot. Then he reminded me to empty my backpack onto the road, which conflicted with his earlier request of taking it off, but I wasn't about to argue with a zombie-infected/heroin-addicted knife wielding ruffian.

I kept my eyes on him as I dropped the baseball bat, then I shrugged off my rucksack and undid the straps. I hesitated before I turned it upside down. It seemed pretty darn unnecessary to me. He wiped some of the dried blood off of his forehead and then shook his knife at me again to hurry along the process.

I upended the bag, spilling its contents pointlessly all over the street. First came the spare socks and clothes I'd taken from the flat. Then came the water and rations. Then out came Tom's various maps of the south coast along with a bunch of cooking equipment and some tools from the helicopter. And then, after a quick pause, the helicopter Pilot's pistol dropped out onto the pile.

There was a brief moment of silence as both me and the knifeman stared at the gun. Then I dived for it, reacting quicker than him, which isn't surprising considering he had started the journey to zombie-dom.

I rolled to my feet and pointed the gun at him, hoping to hell that he wouldn't realize that it wasn't loaded. I was grateful Tom wasn't the kind of person to leave a gun lying around, especially when the last time it had been used was to miss an attacking zombie and accidentally hit me in the side.

The gun gave me a sense of power. I felt damn right bad ass when I was pointing it at between the bloke's eyes. He dropped to his knees and started begging for his life. I wasn't entirely certain how much it was worth, so I instead asked him politely to slide over the knife. He did so, and I snatched it up with my free hand. I wasn't sure what was going to happen next. Watching the guy beg made me feel uncomfortable, so I let my arm hang loose and told him that I was going to take my stuff and leave. He began to cry. Which made me feel even worse. I reminded myself that the guy had been happy to threaten me with a blade. For all I knew he was going to take my hard-earned belongings and leave me stranded in the street with nothing but my space invaders underwear.

I did as I said I'd do. I packed everything back into the sack as the guy crumpled against the car and began to sob uncontrollably. I did my best to ignore him, the lovable, soft part of me wanted to offer him a ration pack and a bottle of water, but the majority of me wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. I kept the gun within reach as I packed. As I finished the former knife-wielder had rolled next to the driver's side of the car where the zombie still sat, probably trying to figure out the seat belt mechanism. I walked past the boot of the car and then remembered what had led me to this situation in the first place - petrol.

There was a single jerry can in the boot of the car. It was nestling on top of a roll of blankets and tucked neatly behind a tool box. I picked it up and shook it, smiling as I felt the heaviness of the petrol and heard it sloshing around inside the can. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep me going long enough to find a petrol station.

I closed the boot and walked away. Leaving the poor guy on the ground, crying to himself and complaining about the pain in his arm. I blocked the noise out as I walked back to the dirt track and towards my car.

It was just where I'd left it. Past the murdered, bloated zombie and round the corner from the trapped family of elderly Z's. The Citroen was happy to gulp down a few litres of unleaded petrol. I deposited my rucksack and the emptied can in the boot. Then I bounced up and down on the front of the car a few times to make sure the petrol had settled firmly into the tank. After that, I booted up the car and got the hell out of there.

I followed the path I'd taken on foot, which eventually had me pull out onto the main road. The overturned lorry took up a lot of the street, so I had to borrow some of the pavement and cycle path to get around it. Nobody complained. A few of the neighbouring Z's took notice of me as I zoomed past, but more than a few of them were already preoccupied with nibbling on the scattered body parts. It seemed if you happened to be a zombie that "Main Road" actually meant "Human Buffet", or in zombie-speak; "Hruuuuughhhsnarl".

A mile or two passed without major incident, it was spent mostly weaving between the abandoned cars. Then I spotted the Masons Arms in the distance. Next to it was the heap of broken metal that had once been a pretty formidable travelling device. Next to that was the infected man that I'd threatened and then robbed. He sat up when he heard the car, then watched me as I drove past. I kept my eyes focused on the road ahead. I just couldn't muster the courage to look at him, and if I did, all he would see was me. Healthy me. With my completely human life and my car full of everything I needed to survive. It was a savage kick in the teeth for him.

I drove on, but I couldn't shake the guys face out of my head. He'd looked like he was about to lose his mind, and he'd happily steal everything I had, but shit - He knew he was going to turn. He'd been in that smashed car, driving with somebody, probably a friend. Maybe a family member. And he'd seen them die. He knew it was coming, he had to know. That sort of mind-fuckery will drive you to being a bit of a twat. My mind rolled things over, always settling on the fact that this guy was on my team. A human being, for now. I couldn't help but feel like a one-hundred-percent shitwhistle for just driving on by. With his petrol. Fuck.

I didn't know how I'd help, in fact I knew there was nothing I could do for him. But I found myself stomping on the brakes, adjusting my rear-view mirror and then reversing all the way back until I rolled to a stop outside the pub.

I got out of the car and quickly scanned my surroundings, not noticing any shambling figures. Then I pulled my baseball bat out of the car and walked up to the man I'd stolen from. He was still led on the floor, silently weeping and convulsing.

I said 'Hi'. No response. Then I told the man straight that he'd been bitten. His silent cries switched to full-volume. Then he coughed, opened his eyes, looked at me, and nodded.

The words spilled out of him, not eloquently either. He was a mess. Between shudders and sobs he told me what had happened. He'd been travelling with his best friend when they'd hit a zombie at high speed and lost control of the car. He'd woken up screaming as his best friend took a clean bite of his arm whilst strapped into the seat next to him. The crash had killed him, probably broken his neck, and he'd turned.

I decided to be honest. I told him straight: 'You know you're going to die, right?'. The bloke fucking lost it. He banged his head a few times on the car tire. Then he resumed back to just laying there, letting the tears fall down his face. I couldn't think of anything to say, so I let my stomach speak for me and asked him if he was hungry.

He didn't bother replying, so I decided he was in fact hungry and went back to the car. Still no incoming zombies, I'd probably been going so fast they'd given up hope of ever catching me up. I mean, to them I was just an obsolete object flying past at high speed. They didn't know there was a human being inside the car. It was just a shiny metal blob to them, making distracting noises. At least I hoped that was the case.

I sat down next to the guy and set up Tom's stove, piling on a couple of hexi-fuel cubes. Then I bunged a mess tin on top and emptied some water and a whole slab of meaty rations inside. I poured an unhealthy helping of salt on top and let it cook. I handed the guy a bottle of water. He took it silently and began to drink, spilling a fair share of it over his sweat-stained t-shirt.

When he'd finished he muttered a thank-you and dropped the empty bottle. We waited in near silence for the ration to break down in the water and cook. In that time I watched the guy as he rolled his blood shot eyes and squirmed. Blood leaked out of the wound in his arm, but he didn't seem to care much about that any more. He was a skinny dude, I didn't know how long it would take for the infection to do its work and shut his body down, but from his condition I figured it wouldn't be much longer.

I ate half of the contents in the mess tin and then passed it to him to finish. I made a mental note to find a new fork, what if infection could be passed along while an infected guy was still human? As always there were more questions than answers.

I made small talk as I packed the tin away. I asked him where he was from, what he did for a living before people stopped living, taste in music, etc. It was only when I mentioned music that he responded. He twisted his face into something resembling a smile and then blurted out 'The Specials'. He told me he'd seen The Specials for the first time last year, at Glastonbury festival. The comment struck a distant memory in me, I'd been at the same festival with a group of college friends. I'd seen The Specials too, I'd been in the same crowd as this guy (He'd tell me later that his name was Dwayne), we'd probably both been skanking along to the music in our wellies at the same time. I told him I remembered them opening the set with 'Do the Dog' and the ice was completely broken. The gun toting and knife waving had been forgotten.

We talked for a long time. Stopping only when a zombie wandered in a little too close for comfort. I dispatched it without mercy, and Dwayne had watched me do it, nodding his approval when I returned to the conversation. The subject floated to the apocalypse we'd both experienced. He'd been at work when a co-worker of his (One he'd always considered a complete moron) had coughed up a throatful of blood onto his desk. He'd excused himself to the toilet and when he didn't return for thirty minutes, Dwayne had gone to check on him. A group of them kicked down the door to the toilet and a zombie had come charging out. From there Dwayne and some of his closest friends had made for the Ministry of Defence headquarters, a confirmed safe zone by the emergency radio stations. Except it was overcrowded and eventually overrun, all within days. Dwayne and his friend had barely escaped, and they'd been scavenging in this area ever since.

The conversation thinned out and we sat in a companionable silence for a little while. Then the silence was broken as Dwayne fell into a messy coughing fit. Wads of blood and gloop fell into his facial scruff. When the coughs subsided he stared at his hands, where a sticky, red residue sat. I couldn't help but recall the story of Dwayne's co-workers sudden transformation into a member of the undead. I snatched a look at my discarded bat, it was still in arms reach. Dwayne's eyes slowly closed and he muttered a crude string of swear words before his voice faded away and he shuddered, leaning back against the car.

I tensed. And then his eyes snapped open.

'I think I'll go for a walk.'

Not quite what I was expecting, to be honest. I felt a little guilty that I'd dived for my bat, but Dwayne didn't seem to care very much. He shakily got to his feet, using the top of his car to balance him and grimacing all the way. I asked him if he felt okay, which in retrospect was a bit of a silly question, but Dwayne nodded and forced a brave smile. Remember how I said how he looked bad when he first shouted obscenities at me? Well now he was looking positively dreadful. It was almost painful to watch as he thanked me solemnly for the food and strode off past the wreckage, taking a short moment to say goodbye to his zombified friend.

I had a sudden thought and called out after him, asking him if he wanted his knife back. I'd left it on the passenger seat of my car with no intentions of using it. He shook his head and told me he wouldn't need it any more, then he continued past the wall, eventually being swallowed into the under-brush.

I was feeling kind of sad. I liked Dwayne, he was a good guy and I'd forgiven him for his harsh words and brash knife waving. Knowing him as I did now, I don't think he would've been able to use that knife on another human being, no matter how desperate he had been. And with the knife in my possession now, I hoped I'd never stoop to that level either.

I once again opened the demolished cars boot and liberated a thick blanket and Dwayne's tool box, transferring them to my Citroen where I'm sure they'll be put to good use. Then I strapped myself in and got to driving.

I took the first exit off of the main road, Tom would never forgive me if he found out I'd broken his golden rule. From there I continued along the windy roads of the countryside for another hour. Keeping to these roads was as mundane as it was necessary. As usual I passed no signs of life, and plenty of death. I passed a burnt down farmhouse and the remains of several large barn animals. I also drove alongside a large fishing lake, which would've been a brilliant way to spend an afternoon, except the lake was littered with abandoned rowing boats and floating bodies. A minor turn off.

The sun was still hanging high in the sky when I began trundling up a steady incline. I made it into a cluster of hills and a heavy shroud of fog quickly settled in around me. It made navigating the curvy roads a bit of a nightmare. I could see perhaps twenty feet in front of me at the best of times, which meant I had about three seconds to swerve out of the way whenever the mist produced a wandering corpse or a toppled over moped. I considered turning back and getting out of the hills, but I had a good feeling that this way was south and if I made any changes in direction I'd lose my inner bearing.

I soldiered on through the haze, picking up speed and quickly becoming desperate to leave the hills behind me. It wasn't long before I decided enough was enough and slammed the brakes after skimming past a derelict trailer, missing it by mere inches. I took a few breaths and shoved my fingers through the slats of the heat blowers to warm them up. The pitter-patter of rainfall began to beat a steady rhythm on my windscreen. I thumbed on the wiper blades and then decided that I wasn't going to continue in these weather conditions. I pulled along the road slowly, looking for a junction or a gap in the towering hedges. After a while a dirt track opened up on my left leading onto field that was quickly becoming waterlogged in the rain. I had to jump out of the car and unshackle the gate to the field - getting more than a little wet in the process - then drive the car through before returning to lock the gate behind me.

The car fared quite well on the slippery grass, I drove a little distance from the road and then stopped to take a look around. To my left I could see the faint outline of a building. I assumed it was some kind of farming estate and when I angled towards it I saw that I was right. It was a formidable looking safe-house. Well, it was more like a safe-barn. Or at least a large safe-shed. What I'm saying is it looked reasonably safe, square shaped and big enough to fit my car inside.

It was big, wooden and well made. I pulled up to the closed doors and slid out of the car, dragging my bat out with me. As always I knocked twice, just to make sure I wasn't about to walk in on an orgy or something. Stuff like that happened occasionally in these parts. I couldn't hear anything, unless you counted the heavy downpour of rain, so I shoved open the doors and hoped for the best.

It wasn't the best. But it was something. I faced an empty stable, water leaking through the roof in a few areas and scatterings of wet, mossy hay all around the floor. I was curious as to what had happened to the horses. Were they zombie horses now? It would take more than a baseball bat to put a beast like that down.

The central area was just big enough to fit the Citroen inside, neatly tucked between the horse stalls. With the mist, the rain and the solid walls around me I felt comfortably tucked away from the world. I took a Zippo lighter from my rucksack and made a small fire out of some dry hay in secluded corner, out the way of the leaking rain. After thoroughly warming up my hands I hunkered down and waited.

And waited. And waited.

The rain didn't stop, and when I took a peek outside I saw that the fog hadn't lifted and didn't look as if it would any time soon. I stomped out my fire and returned to the car to reverse it back so that my rear bumper was pressing up against the doors. If I was going to be stuck in here overnight then I didn't want any unexpected visitors creeping up on me.

Eventually the rainfall lulled me into a shallow sleep. I popped back into existence an hour later and got a brew on. I was never comfortable with drinking tea out of a metal tin (It just feels so uncivilized), but I was getting used to it. I spent the rest of the afternoon burning hay, doing sit ups and eating stodgy rice, among other trivial things. I also re-arranged my rucksack, packing everything neatly away and leaving the empty gun on top. It would be useful if I had to threaten any miscreants who wanted to steal my belongings.

Eventually the rain subsided, and with it the light. I guess time flies when you sit in an empty stable burning things.

There wasn't much else to do, so I slept for a long time, squished into the back-seat of the car and covered with my new blanket. I woke up at dawn, just before the first ray of sunlight pierced the wooden walls. It reminded me of being back in school where I'd wake up before the alarm had gone off and then dread every minute that brought me closer to it. I had the same feeling that morning. I knew I should sit up and get moving, but I wanted nothing more than to curl up and forget everything that had happened. I dreaded every minute that brought me closer to returning to the world of the dead.


	19. 18092011

**User: LegendLuigi91**  
><strong>Date: 1809/2011**  
><strong>Subject: Papa's Got a Brand New In-Car Charger<strong>

Eventually I managed to drag myself out of the lukewarm comfort of my blanket, it took only ten minutes of lowering the blanket inch by inch, slowly letting my body adapt to the icy September chill. The morning then consisted of a series of healthy stretches in hopes that it would ease the feeling of crookedness that came with sleeping in a car. It didn't.

Then I got my brew on. It was only natural.

I left my water to boil and then got started on clearing the way to the stable doors. Could you believe somebody parked their Citroen in front of them? What a scumbag. I didn't feel the need to start the engine, so I shifted the handbrake off and put my muscles to the test. With a little effort I rolled the car back a few feet, enough room to get the doors open, ready for me to make my imminent getaway. As soon as I'd had my cup of tea.

The doors shuddered a little as a strong gust of wind battered against them, blowing cold air through the gaps. I breathed it in, letting it soothe the soreness of my throat for several seconds before coughing it back out, along with a mouthful of mucous and spittle – if you thought things couldn't get much worse than a world dissolving into hell, then imagine being slapped with a hefty bout of the common cold in afore mentioned dissolving world of hell. That's the kind of poor fortune that people write haiku's about.

_Winter approaches_  
><em>Zombies, flu and frozen balls<em>  
><em>I am pretty fucked<em>

I'm still working on the last line. I usually like to end my poetry with a glimmer of hope. But right now I'm just not feeling it, for some reason.

My curiosity regarding the outside world started to peck at me and I was eventually drawn to the stable doors. When I'd lost myself on this hilly landscape I was stuck in a thick fog and looking for an emergency hideaway. It was pure luck that I'd managed to find a semi-hospitable sleeping space that came with the added bonus of smelling faintly of horse piss. With my water on the boil I decided to kill some time with a quick perimeter sweep, just to make sure I wasn't camping next to a bucket of unpleasantness (It has been known to happen).

The high altitude gave the wind a bit of extra punch, but all in all, it was a fairly decent day. The rain and fog had moved on, leaving me with just a smattering of greyish-white cloud and a tickle of sunlight. Perfect weather for a countryside stroll. The first thing I noticed was the unlocked fence hanging from its post. I guess I forgot to lock it behind me, my bad. The second thing I noticed was a three story farm house situated roughly three hundred yards to the left of my stable.

Shit.

Not only had the fog forced me off-road, it had also totally shafted me by hiding this five star farm house from view. Major ball-ache. By comparison, the Stable looked like a glorified cardboard box. I guess there was one positive - The days I'd spent in that tower block in Frome had left me soft. The cure? A night sleeping inside a poorly maintained, moss covered Stable. It'll toughen you up in no time.

My water hadn't began to hiss, so I had little time to take my bat on a recon mission to the house before it boiled over. Times like this made me wish I had a decent pair of binoculars, or perhaps a better pair of eyes. Either way, long distance vision was a super power that I was sorely missing.

I trudged my way across the field, already suspicious of a few moving figures lingering around the farmhouse. Just enough for me to solo without too much hassle before reaping the rewards. Worst case scenario was a potential stock up on food and perhaps the discovery of a can or two of petrol. I figured these farmer-types might keep some around for their chainsaws, tractors and combine harvesters. Best case scenario was a Remington 700 with a few dozen cartridges of ammo and an armoured van with a built in mini fridge, fully stocked with Pepsi Max and gingerbread men. A guy can dream, right?

Two cars were parked outside of the building, alongside a pretty big utility shed. I couldn't wait to see what kind of goodies were inside of it, so I headed in its general direction, spinning my bat around as I walked and making awesome light sabre noises.

The first Z pulled itself up off the floor where I can only assume it had been sunbathing or something. Even drawing itself to its full height it was barely five-feet tall. It was hard to tell its true age since a large part of his face had peeled away. Out of decency for my fellow man-zombie I chose the clear side of his face to dash in with a baseball bat. At least now he'd look more symmetrical. I said a silent prayer for the young dead and moved on. See, I'm not a total monster.

I found the shed thoroughly locked. Bolted and chained with a heavy duty, rusted padlock. What a bummer. I had a horrible feeling that the owners were the type of people who kept their bolt cutters locked away inside the shed. I admitted defeat and lent back against the door to examine the household further. It was a pretty building, with a lot of extensions that must've been added over the years of successful farming. Upon admiring the architecture, I found one minor imperfection – one of the ground floor windows was smashed to buggery.

Speaking of smashing. I noticed a creeper edging its way around one of the cars – a grubby pick-up truck. I rolled my neck and pushed myself off the shed. Sometimes duty calls.

Two things happened in quick succession. The first was my bat arcing into the Z's head, crushing it against the trucks door. The second was the car alarm.

NUURRRN-NUURRRN-NUURRRN-NUURRRN-NUURRRN-NUURRRN.

I froze on the spot, unable to pull together a sane thought. The alarm drilled into my head like a whiny, attention seeking jack hammer. For a small while I stood there without a whole lot to do. Then more things happened.

The smashed window became pretty damn occupied. A topless, heavy farmer fell out of it with a face full of snarls. Then came his zombie wife, zombie kids, zombie grandpa and zombie cousins. The whole fucking family had come out to celebrate, even the ginger kid that nobody paid much attention to. It was my least favourite family reunion ever.

In that moment my casual, devil-may-care attitude fled me, hiding somewhere deep in my bowels, trying to keep the urine from leaking down my leg. I did a sketchy one-eighty-degree turn and got the fuck out of there, forgetting my dreams of chainsaws and petrol. I legged it right the way back to the stable, only to find that the wind had knocked over my boiled water. Now I was really sad.

I snatched up my stove and jumped into the Citroen. In seconds I was skidding across the field, kicking up a storm of mud behind me. The zombie posse were intent on intercepting me, but their corpsified legs couldn't carry them quite as fast as they desired, so I left them behind to play happy families at their fucked up luxury farmhouse.

I covered a little distance after that, moving past villages and avoiding a few not-so-favourable situations. My fuel meter ticked back into the reserve tank and before long I was running on fumes again. It wasn't a nice feeling. In fact I was downright petrified of having to travel on foot through this cesspit of a country.

Thankfully I soon came across a sign post which shone a light through my fears. The sign featured a cartoonish petrol pump, a one-hundred yard distance marker and an arrow pointing to my left. I smiled – the sign was idiot proof. Just how I liked them.

I took a left and bounced through a few hills before reaching the outskirts of a little town, all quaint and hidden amongst the uneven landscape. Sitting between me and the town was a small store which had been built directly opposite a dozen petrol pumps. Perfect, almost.

I say almost because the store was swamped by at least two dozen Z's, making the refuelling process a wee bit difficult. I stopped a fair distance away and had a quick think. What I needed was a pretty hefty distraction that would give me enough time to get my fuel tank to maximum capacity, hopefully with a couple of minutes spare to grab a brewski or two from the store. This profession can give a man a thirst.

After thirty seconds of deep thought I launched into action. Okay, sure, it was five minutes. Perhaps ten. Whatever. I launched into action and sped past the horde with the hope of catching their attention. I turned off road and circled around the petrol station several times until I was happy with the results. When I finally had them on the move I lead them on a short chase to the village, stopping every thirty meters or so to let them catch up. It was painfully slow, but my last dregs of petrol held strong as I rolled past the 'Welcome to Crapford' sign. It might have been Sandford, I forget.

I idled on the boundary of Sandford, letting the band of zombies inch closer while appreciating the surrounding scenery. I was wedged between an allotment full of rotting vegetables and a shop selling candles. Candles didn't actually seem like a bad idea, but as I considered making a run into the shop the first line of Z's reached the car and began using it as a snare drum. I slowly pulled away to lead them deeper into the town, attracting more and more to the vehicle as I passed the various local hot spots. Placed like the local tavern, the morgue and other exciting attractions. I gave them a pretty good tour of the place. The last location on the list happened to be the last place I wanted to visit; the community graveyard.

The gates had been left open and the crumbled road circling the ocean of gravestones was mostly clear. I guess nobody wants to be hanging around a graveyard when the apocalypse hits. I swung past the gates, leading my personal parade of zombies behind me. I drove, ball-achingly slow, in a semi circle around the graves, reaching the back fence and then pausing once more to let the Z's gather around the back of the car.

Then I hit the GTFO button and sped away, back towards the open gates. My on-the-spot-plan had been to lock the bastards inside, it was the perfect home for them after all, but a few stragglers still lingered around the gates, and whilst my luck had been holding out lately, I didn't fancy testing its limits. I instead pushed the limits of the fuel-less tank all the way back to the petrol station. At one point I almost hit fifty miles-per-hour. Be impressed.

I screeched to a sudden stop next to one of the pumps. So far my plan was working. Nobody from Sandford seemed too intent on crashing my petrol party. I scooted out of the car and tested the pump. I was rewarded with a quick spray of beautiful smelling, golden liquid. The deeper into the west country you get, the more trusting the people are, so this station didn't see the need to put a locking mechanism on their pumps.

But this also meant that they were more prone to the occasional pillaging, as I found out when the golden flow of petrol suddenly stopped.

I de-handbraked the car and rolled it forward to the next pump, using my immense strength and manliness. This time the petrol gushed happily into the tank. I filled it up to capacity, then did the same with my jerry can. Then I gave the area a quick scan with my Z-radar. It was all clear, so I put on my scavenging hat and made my way towards the store.

Someone had left the shutters half closed, so it was a bit dark. Almost forbidding, in a way. But fuck no was I going to pass up the opportunity to grab me a cheeky Kit-Kat.

There was a small pharmacy section behind the counter. So I grabbed myself a shopping basket and a burgundy bobble hat because it looked warm and was on offer. And let's be honest, burgundy is my colour. The basket I packed with minor medication, nothing heavy-duty like the military meds that Tom and Mo would still be carrying, just painkillers, bandages and the like. Next on the shopping list was chocolate, crisps, a few Kerrang! magazines, a new Zippo lighter and a half dozen tins of beans. Because FIBER. Don't argue.

I'd originally promised myself not to venture forth into the darkest regions of the store. But a rack containing every kind of battery imaginable caught my eye. It reminded me that I'd yet to fill the gap that my blogging drought had left me with. I'd considered both golf and pottery, but finding the resources would be a bit difficult. At that point it had been days since I'd last typed out a dozen lengthy paragraphs about how fucking horrific my day had been and how harsh and unforgiving the world had become.

I missed it. I really did.

Trying not to get my hopes up, I approached the electronics section. Without my emergency charging kit I hadn't needed batteries recently, but I grabbed a handful anyway, along with a moderate sized torch. I made to return back to my non-perishable food shopping, but a shelf of Christmas tree shaped in-car air fresheners grabbed my attention. A world full of dead bodies was a foul smelling place to live, so I stole a few. Then a few more for good measure.

Then I realised I was looking at the car section. Full of cans of de-icer, scrapers, wash cloths. That sort of stuff. A multitude of useful things for the automobile enthusiast. But what I was really looking for was a...

_"In-Car USB 12V Charger - £2.89"_. Fucking SCORE. My traumatic blogging days weren't over after all. I had a car charger. And I had a car. And I had a lead, somewhere, buried under all my other crap. This was all I had ever wanted. Except a sudden end to the zombie infection. But that could wait, for now. Right then, nothing was more important than getting back to the car and getting my phone hooked up and sucking in some energy.

Before leaving I grabbed a couple more air fresheners for good measure. For a moment I couldn't quite decide between 'Moon Lily' scented, or 'Lavender Fields'. In the end it didn't matter. A loud CLANG! from the back of the store stole my attention. Along with whatever elation I had been feeling from my phone charging discoveries.

I quietly placed my basket on the floor and hugged the bat to my chest as I approached the shady back corners of the store, wide eyed and open eared. I could just make out a faint shuffling noise coming from my left. I figured there had to be a poor soul ambling about in the aisle over, probably not worth my time or effort. I decided that I'd done enough shopping for the day. I turned back to retrieve my basket and found myself staring directly into the eyes of...

The cutest fucking kitten I'd ever seen.

Seriously, I don't even like cats. I'm more of a dog person. But this little fella just radiated cuteness. Its deep, warm amber eyes bore into mine and its tongue flicked out to taste the air. I greeted the stripy little fur ball with a wave, because I don't speak cat, and it responded with a casual sway of its tail. I took that to mean "I want to be your best friend now right now hug me" and took a step forward.

It arched its back as only a cat can and gave me a sharp hiss to let me know I wasn't welcome. I stood confused for a second or two. I thought we'd had a real connection.

Then came the explosion.

Not a fiery explosion. It was more like a sudden, metallic explosion of canned goods. Something dead with two left feet had toppled into a pyramid of produce, sending it crashing in my direction. Out of the chaos limped an unsightly figure of broken flesh. I just managed to bring up my bat as it lurched forward, partially taking me by surprise and completely knocking me off of my feet.

I managed to keep hold of the bat as I hit the floor. It happened to be the only thing between me and the Z, so I strengthened my grip on each end and shoved it length-ways into its mouth.

"Dead weight" takes on a whole new meaning when there's a stubborn zombie lying on top of you.

I didn't have many options from my position, so I kept a firm grip on the bat as the zombie tried to shake it out of its mouth. One of his knees dug into my thigh, pinning my leg to the ground. It dragged a festering hand down my face, leaving a smear of blood and skin on my cheek. With its other hand it grabbed hold of the skin under my bicep and squeezed. Its strength was unnatural. Like I've said before; No brain. No limits. A dead muscle was still a muscle, and it was being used to peak capacity, clamping down on the soft part of my arm.

The pain gave me a quick burst of strength. I angled the bat to one side and shoved the Z into the shelving unit next to us, knocking a few dozen rolls of toilet paper off the racking. As much as I wanted to watch the shower of bouncing toilet rolls, I decided it was a good time to grab my shopping and get out of town before any other of the locals showed up.

I did just that. Exiting the store with impressive haste and then dodging out of the way of a lingering Z. I could see several more making their way towards the store in the distance, but I'd be long gone before they got close.

I returned to the Citroen and stashed the basket on the back seat. I could sort through its contents later. My bat closely followed, taking its rightful place on the passenger seat. Then I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt something against my leg. I swung around, ready to curb stomp the something, and saw a flash of orange dart into the car. Upon closer inspection I found my furry friend from the shop had decided it wanted my company after all. The kitten prowled across the back seat of the car, pulling up threads and mewing to itself.

I didn't have time to argue with it, so I jumped in. In minutes I was back on the open road. Driving in what I assumed was a vaguely southern direction. At that moment I didn't care. It just felt good to be on the move. The kitty seemed a little tense for the first hour, I guess felines were never meant to travel at such break neck speeds. He started to warm to me as we passed through the completely burned down town of Clatcombe. The place was absolutely ruined. All it took was one person to accidentally leave their oven on when vacating the country, and the whole place goes up in flames. It's a pity really.

I passed through village after village. Some eerily abandoned, others crawling with creepers. I drove past hamlets, around towns, across bridges and through thick stretches of woodland. I drove for hours and didn't see a single living soul. Except the cat. He was all over the place, always getting in the way when I needed to quickly execute a three point turn, or jumping up to claw at my burgundy bobble. The cute little bastard.

I checked and re-checked my phone constantly. Watching the battery meter slowly tick its way to full charge. As soon as the minuscule text changed to 100% I found myself searching for a safe place to pull over.

Luckily I was travelling through a fairly secluded spot on land, covered in wild forest. I hoped it was Dartmoor, since I knew that it wasn't too far from the coast. But in all honesty I didn't have a clue where I was.

I stopped at an engraved wooden signpost, which looked oddly out of place amongst the wilderness. It read 'Hardy's Copse' Whatever that meant. I was just glad that it said copse, and not a similar word with an extra 'R'. Beside the signpost was a fairly overgrown dirt track. It was probably a little small for a car, but that didn't stop me from following it. I made sure not to veer off the track, so I could follow it back the way I came if I ran into a dead end. Getting lost in a giant national park wasn't something on my to-do list.

The track went on and on. In the end my patience faded into non-existence and I just pulled over into a gap in the tree's, hoping that I'd be vaguely hidden from view.

My new accomplice purred its approval at the hiding spot.. I'd taken to calling the kitten 'Funkmaster Fresh', because it sounded good in my head. Now that I've put it into words it seems almost silly. But it's too late now. Me and 'Fresh are in this together, and whilst he can't swing an axe or stitch a wound, he's still good, warm company.

I was almost giddy with excitement when I powered on my phone. Never before had I been so happy to see that half-chewed apple logo. It was beautiful. I scanned my last entry in the Notes app. Five days had passed since I'd last written my last post. It had seemed like a hell of a lot longer.

I typed for a good few hours. And not just because it was tricky as fuck to use the touch screen with my oversized thumbs, or that autocorrect kept changing my poetic thoughts into obscenities, but because I had a lot of ground to cover. My imprisonment and eventual escape from Frome. My theft of my new Citroen. The meeting with Dwayne, which upon recalling in such vivid detail had left me feeling thoroughly haunted. But I did it. Once more I found myself transferring my wordy thoughts into thoughtful words.

Eventually 'Fresh began to moan, so I let him out to do his business. He was away for quite a while, so long that when he returned the sun had began to dip into the horizon. It wasn't all bad though – 'Fresh had taken it upon himself to find dinner; a very dead mouse.

I vetoed the mouse and instead cooked myself up a warm tin of beans, and drowned it down with the cup of tea that I'd been deprived of that morning. I had four kit-kats for desert. Don't judge me. A zombie apocalypse is the most appropriate time to comfort eat. It is known. I shared my dinner with the kitty, it was only fair considering I'd driven him a hundred miles from home. With my unwashed dishes packed away I decided to treat myself to a small fire. It hadn't yet rained that day, but the cold was constant and relentless.

I spent another hour logging my journey into the blog, describing the thoughts that had span around my head when I was attempting to sleep inside the stable. Staring at the tiny phone screen for such a time had left me with a minor head ache, so I let 'Fresh know it was time for bed and stomped out my small, flaming tinder.

I slept once more on the back-seat of the car, which left my neck feeling like a stiff, crooked mess. It would just have to get used to it, I guess. Once I was officially awake and active I gave my surroundings a quick sweep, as always, to check for any potential threats. Then I'd lowered myself back into the driver's seat and typed away on my phone.

Which brings me to here, I guess. 'Fresh disappeared into the woods a short while ago. I hope he plans on coming back. Not that I'm attached or anything, he's just useful to have around.

I've already thought up today's game plan. I'm going dig out Tom's maps and re-acquaint myself with the south coast, where I'm almost positive Tom and Mo will be waiting. If anybody can traverse the infected lands of gloomy England, it's them. And me, I hope. But we'll see about that.

If you don't hear from me again, then I'm sure it's because I've been rescued by the courageous and inspiring members of the British government.

Right after hell freezes over.

Thank you once again for your attention. If you exist.

I am Luigi De Fritos. Swinger of bats. Consumer of tea. Befriender of small, furry mammals. And I am going to Starcross.


	20. 19092011

**User: LegendLuigi91**  
><strong>Date:1909/2011**  
><strong>Subject: Animals<strong>

So it turns out things don't always go quite as planned. In fact, they often take sudden nose dives into Shitville. Or downward spirals to the city of what-the-fuck-have-I-got-myself-into. I began the day with purpose. I ended the day with my head in my hands, stripped of everything I held dear and looking at nothing but my severely limited options. The worst part of it is I'm not alone. I'm surrounded by the foulest of figures that this new world has to offer. I'm surrounded by the soulless, beasts that don't know the meaning of compassion, or guilt. I'm surrounded by monsters.

And this time I'm not talking about zombies.

So things went from fairly-okay-ish to inconceivably shitty. Like the acclaimed story teller that I am, I'll begin at the beginning, because anything else would just be silly.

With a tin of water happily boiling away on the stove and a faint sparkle of morning sun shining down on me, I started rummaging through my rucksack, spilling its contents over the back seat. The now useless pistol lay amongst the other clutter. What I could really do with were bullets, but as it was a military grade weapon I was only going to find ammo in a military grade location. Of which there weren't many in the vast, provincial countryside that I'd reluctantly lost myself in.

I'd passed a fair amount of police cars and riot vans, all thoroughly demolished and looted, but since the unfortunate run in with the Airforce there hadn't been any other signs of the British military. I could only theorise that they had been called in to occupy the major cities, mainly London and the like, and it was there that they had been subsequently overrun and devoured. But like I said, that's just a theory. For all I knew London could still be a thriving metropolis, untouched by the plague and as chaotic and wonderful as it had always been. Maybe the military had beaten back the hordes and walled off the city. Perhaps the numerous countries of Europe had banded together to eliminate the outbreak. Or our friends across the Atlantic could have heard our desperate plea's for martial assistance.

Then again, there was a good chance that the rest of the world is as equally fucked as we are.

There was a smattering of rainfall as I spread the biggest of the maps across the bonnet of the car. I'd covered a fair amount of distance in the past couple of days, so I was hoping to have crept into the upper regions of the map, maybe even further down and closer to the south coast. There was also a small chance that I was travelling in the completely wrong direction. Usually you could tell where you were by the local dialect, but these days everybody shared the same monotonous growl, so I was relying mostly on sign posts and my shaky-at-best spiritual compass.

I took a moment to memorise a couple of the bigger landmarks around the upper edge of the map, then I packed it away and began my morning ritual of stretches, calorie consumption and general meandering around whilst my water boiled. I caught myself staring into the deep tangle of forest and quietly considered going for a morning stroll. If you thought my previous morning stroll into disaster-land had frightened me then you were absolutely right. But that was like, twenty-seven hours ago, and I usually have to get bitten in the ass three or four times before I learn my lesson.

That's not to say I didn't feel a familiar sense of dread as I padded through the dense foliage, trying and failing to place my feet on the less crowded parts of the ground. Every snap of a twig beneath my boot seemed unnecessarily amplified, like a naturey sonar giving away my position.

I walked for some time, quite happy that I hadn't encountered any of the two-legged rot bags. It was refreshing to be outdoors and allow myself to fully inhale a noseful of fresh, crisp air instead of reluctantly breathing in the stale scent of decay. I couldn't shake the feeling of vulnerability, however, and I found myself dragging my free hand across the bark of a passing tree just to give myself something to do. With my other hand I began tapping my baseball bat against my thigh to the rhythm of Seven Nation Army, a personal favourite hiking tune of mine.

I'd always described myself as an outdoorsy type. I was forced into a bunch of different activities when I was living in a residential care home for abandoned youngsters. It's like they tried to plug the gap in our lives with copious amounts of exciting activities. I wasn't very good at kayaking or abseiling, but I had a knack for getting lost in the woods for days on end and not being at all bothered by it. In fact, that was how I acquainted myself with the magic of naturally psychedelic mushrooms, but that's a story for another day. Periodically living in the woods was a skill that I carried over when I turned eighteen and had to leave the orphanage. When I wasn't battling to stay in college or working late nights to keep a dirty, confining roof over mine and my martial-arts-obsessed flatmates heads, I was usually climbing trees or making fire pits in a heavily forested part of the country. Back then I didn't have a care in the world.

Now I cared a whole lot, even in a world as distressed as this one was. I felt only a thin slither of nostalgia as I navigated through the woodland. The place that I'd once felt so at home was now filled with an uncomfortable sense of dread.

But you know what's worse than an uncomfortable sense of dread? Being uncomfortably surrounded by zombies. I was at least thankful that the dead seemed to avoid wooded areas.

There was an opening up ahead from me. My head wanted nothing to do with it, but by the time I'd convinced myself to turn back, my feet had carried me out into an open stretch of field. In the middle of which was the rather gruesome sight of dozens of half-eaten farm animals, enclosed in a partially collapsed fence. The farmland spanned the entire distance of the field, eventually coming to a stop on a relatively large farm house. The doors were thrown open, and it was utterly occupied by denizens who were most extensively dead.

I felt no obligation to stand and watch the unsightly consumption of more adorable animals. I turned my gaze away, knowing that I could never again enjoy a gleeful reciting of "Old MacDonald had a Farm".

It was upon rushing back to the car that I began to notice a low rumble in the air. At first I thought it was my stomachs way of telling me to get a move on. But then the sound moved over me, getting farther and farther away.

The dense, tree-like canopy denied me from seeing what had just flown over. I hoped it was another one of those sort-of-useful military choppers, but with a pilot who was a little more helpful than those I'd introduced myself to in the past. And if that wasn't possible, my second best bet would be some kind of UFO to ship me off this planet and get me away from the Z's for good. Hey now, if zombies can exist, then so can Martians. And mermaids, I hope.

Eventually I forced my way through a thicket of thorns and out onto the gravelly road. I looked up, deflecting the drops of rain with my resilient face, and sought out the source of the sound.

A small aircraft tore through the sky above me, probably no more than a two-seater. I had to admit it was a stellar idea, as I'm fairly certain zombies are incapable of flight. Still, I couldn't help but think they were cheating bastards. I wasn't jealous or anything, it just didn't seem very fair. I watched the plane fade in and out of view as it scooted through the dense expanse of grey cloud, eventually disappearing into the misty nothingness.

A gentle breeze nudged me out of my reverie and I trotted back down the path, eventually finding the car and a thoroughly boiled tin of water. I doubled bagged my tea with the hopes that it would put an extra spring in my step and keep me awake for the lengthy drive that I wasn't particularly looking forward too. Then, with the knowledge that I had a somewhat dangerous expanse of farmland brimming with the brainless, I buckled up, informed my recently added new friend Fresh (Who had been lounging on the back-seat whilst also being undeniably adorable.) that we were looking at a full days road trip to Starcross. Or somewhere completely different, depending on how much directional aptitude I had.

I hit the road. It wasn't long before the green pastures were left behind and I was back into the winding maze of countryside madness. I passed an abundance of the contrasting scenery that I'd come to associate with my new world. From roving hills, still glistening from the midnight downpour, to an overturned ambulance, surrounded by corpses – both fallen and walking.

The morning passed mostly snag-free. I had a small bout of trouble with an impolitely parked coach, but other than that it was smooth sailing. For the most part I kept the semi-visible sun to my left hand side, hoping that even during traumatic times it would rise on the east and set in the west. That meant I was heading due south. Exactly as planned.

Around mid-day was when things began to go downhill. At one point I removed myself from the vehicle to explore an abandoned Camper Van that had been parked in the middle of an empty field. Partially to let Fresh stretch his little kitty legs. But mostly because my dislike for mysteries and immense curiosity left me no choice.

It turned out that the abandoned Camper Van was in fact – abandoned. After learning of that shocking revelation and searching for anything useful (There wasn't anything) I coaxed Fresh back into the car with a bit of Snickers and moved on. I figure the owners must've just fancied a walk. Or were dragged kicking and screaming from their mobile home by an overwhelming number of undead.

A little time later I rolled through a small town called Piddlehilton (Yes, somebody legitimately thought "Piddlehilton" was a name that needed to be immortalised on maps of Britain everywhere). There was a welcome sign on the outskirts of the village, but it wasn't fooling me. I hadn't yet met a rural area that was at all welcoming, and this one wouldn't be any different. I passed a small block of housing with just a smattering of Z's lingering around the area. Then I turned a corner, straight into-

You guessed it. Shitville.

Within seconds I had placed myself directly in front of a swarm of Z's. Clad in lank, murky threads and covered in boils, maggots and putrid skin. Some were missing arms, or had empty sockets instead of eyes. Others had noticeable chunks of flesh missing from their bodies. One was even ginger.

I would've stayed longer and written a sonnet, but Fresh went absolutely ape-shit, hissing and spitting, clawing up fabric and bouncing around the back of the car like his ass was on fire. I managed to keep my cool, for the most part, and shift the car into reverse. Backwards is probably one of my least favourite directions to drive, so amongst screeching kittens and moaning, heckling Z's, it was damn near impossible.

I sent the Citroen back-spinning into someones immaculate front garden, unimmaculating it and presenting me with what seemed like a clear path to freedom. I sped away, leaving behind the encroaching horde, but with another right turn I found myself facing a second gathering. They were scattered along the length of the road, and hadn't yet formed into one mighty fist of Zombieism, so I took my chances and drove on, weaving left and right to avoid any more vehicular damage and letting the occasional Z bounce off my side when I felt it was warranted.

With a final burst of speed I made it through the crowd, albeit after losing my right wing mirror to an overly grabby Z, and taking a fair amount of damage to the front of the car. But that was a small price to pay for freedom. I happily galloped away out of Piddlehilton and into the fiery, liberating embrace of the rising sun.

For a good fifteen seconds or so.

The chosen path was somewhat obstructed by a toppled tree, and by somewhat I mean utterly and completely. It acted as the perfect roadblock, and whilst I respected its effectiveness, I didn't appreciate its existence, because it put me in a bit of a pickle.

At that moment the last thing I desired was to be bull rushed by an angry mob of Z's. So I was mildly surprised when a body threw itself into my car door. After six or seven more sordid creatures attempted to become one with my Citroen, Fresh took it upon himself to claw up my leg in a successful attempt to tell me to get the fuck out of here. It was a tad bit more motivation than I actually required, what with the Z's streaming out of the tree's to my left, and a larger group gathering behind me in the distance.

There was a small opening in the bushes to my right, where the tree had crashed through them. I backed up a little and then swung the car over the grassy knoll, spilling out onto an adjacent field. I bumped along the uneven ground, leaving a couple of rolling bodies behind me. After passing the pointed peak of the fallen tree I veered back towards the road and crashed through another bush.

Upon re-entering the road I brought with me the bush, which covered a hefty part of my wind screen. That was what I assumed was the main reason that I then barrelled into an unknowing zombie. Small enough that it was thrown head first over the car as I sped away, and big enough to leave a righteous dent in the car bonnet.

The remaining bits of bush were swept away by the wind as I high tailed it out of there, happy to leave the horde behind, to continue its social meandering. The Piddlehilton catastrophe, as it will henceforth be known, had shaken me up pretty bad. I clenched my fists around the steering wheel to calm my heartbeat and shut off some of the pain in my leg, where Fresh had punched a few dozen holes.

But other than that, I was unscathed, as was Fresh. The car however, had taken a good old beating and began to creak and squeak at me at various intervals as I drove.

It would've been fantastic if the days excitement stopped there, and I then could get on with enjoying a regular, struck-in-an-apocalypse sort of day. But at that moment, shit was only beginning to get real.

Another hour of steadfast cruising led me to a very useful road sign. According to the sign, a lovely little village called 'Charminster' was merely minutes away. And past that led the noble town of Dorchester. Population: Unlikely.

I racked my brains for any information I had stored on Dorchester. It sounded vaguely familiar, yet I didn't think it was on the maps I had, so I refused to let myself get excited.

So I travelled, stony faced, to the village of Charminster, a pretty little place with numerous attractions and a bustling community that I couldn't give less of a shit about.

Dorchester, on the other hand, was very interesting.

I exited a small expanse of woodland and found myself face to face with the town, which lay at the bottom of the valley I'd found myself in. Dorchester, like the other places I'd visited recently, was unnaturally quiet and still. It was ringed with industrial buildings, so I couldn't get a great look at the place, but I'd already promised myself that I'd be going around it. I'd had enough of the high population zones, and my new initiate was to avoid them at all costs. And find an abandoned ice cream van so I could get a Cornetto.

So with ice-cream and the preservation of my personal health in mind, I took a direct turn and headed off around the edge of the city, hoping to bypass it completely. A plan which, I must say, was reasonable and rather good. It was also quickly thrown out of the window when I found myself speeding along a quaint little lane. On one side of me was the frivolous wilderness that I was oh so used to. On the other side was substantial barbed wire fence encircling a refugee camp.

Yes. A legitimate, honest-to-Gandhi refugee camp.

It was fascinating. Hundreds of olive coloured tents, makeshift kiosks and temporary offices. Vans, Trucks, Jeeps. Storage units and rows of outhouses. Coils of barbed wire, heaps of wooden pallets and unused concrete blocks.

And it was completely abandoned.

Well. That's not entirely true. It was completely abandoned by those like me. You know, living people. It still housed a decent share of those zombified folk who I didn't want much to do with.

The fence had been compromised at several points, collapsing over the tents that it had sworn to protect. While I was intensely curious about what sort of hidden goodies the camp would be holding, I just couldn't bring myself to go sneaking around a partially enclosed area that had locked in a numerous zombies. Well, that was until-

BANG!

-the Gunshot.

In an eerie harmony, the band of refugee Z's turned their heads with a sudden enthusiasm towards the town of Dorchester. One by one, they began to creep forward. Some found the gaping holes in the fence and took off down the hill towards the town, others just pressed their faces into the mesh, unable to figure out its unrelinquishing power, they instead had to make do with just staring towards the direction of the sound.

I, on the other hand, was not jumping out of my skin at the sound of a mere firearm, because that's just silly. But I will admit that my curiosity meter had a little trouble containing itself. Who had fired the shot? Were they in trouble? I waited a few minutes for another gunshot, but it did not come.

I found myself reconsidering my original viewpoint on the refugee camp. The gunshot, whilst mysterious, was the perfect distraction, and I was now being offered an opportunity I just couldn't pass up.

It was adventure time.

Fresh didn't seem inclined to follow me on my adventure, perhaps his cat-like senses had already warned him that my forays into dark, forbidding area's usually involved the receiving of bodily harm and loss of bodily fluids. He instead sat on top of my rucksack with his ears peeled back and eyes wide, quivering slightly.

There was a narrow opening in the fence, which I was glad for. I've had traumatising experiences in the past when attempting to climb over barbed wire fences. I managed to squeeze through injury-free, using my bat to widen the hole so my recently stolen bobble hat wouldn't catch on the protruding wires. Once inside, I stealthily ran towards the biggest pole-tent in the encampment. It was covered in camouflage netting, which made it look pretty damn important. So far I'd succeeded in not gaining the attention of the zombies, who were still attempting to bypass logic and walk through a solid fence.

I entered the tent. It was dark, damp and presented me with the welcoming gift of single body, which lay still on the floor. It was the body of a military man who's head had been partially crushed by an unknown force. Other than that he didn't have much to offer. I stepped over him and towards the circular table that took up most of the tents space. It was covered in a mish-mash abundance of electrical gear and radio systems. Several boxes had spilled their contents across the table, and a few other containers were completely empty.

I snatched a radio towards me and fiddled with the knobs and switches. It was just as dead as those friendly biters outside. No use to me what-so-ever. Out of habit I flipped it around to steal the batteries - and found they were missing.

Bollocks. I dropped it and went about ransacking the tent for anything of use. I found nothing but broken, dysfunctional junk. Even the pencil case was empty.

Dejected and dismayed, I left the tent and headed towards an industrial storage unit. I had a hunch that it was used mainly for the water stores, because it had "Water Stores" written in giant, green letters on its side. The sliding panel hung half open off of the unit. I already knew what was coming, but I flung it open anyway.

Empty.

Surprise, surprise. The place had been scavenged. I was impressed at the voracity of whoever had taken it upon themselves to completely plunder a camp made for hundreds of people. Where were they keeping all of it? And how did they transport it? I had no more room for unanswered questions, so I let them float away and officially resigned from the area, wanting nothing more to do with it.

BANG!

A second shot. Just as I returned to the Citroen. It sent Fresh into another frenzy, flinging himself across the interior of the car and then burrowing beneath the comfort of my rucksack.

I slammed the door shut and gunned the ignition, shooting off down the street. I didn't have a clear view with the camp in front of me, so I moved along until the depressing sight of the camp fell away and I could see Dorchester in all its glory. I let the car roll to a halt, and then left it to idle for some time while I watched the town, intent on seeing some kind of sign that there was a living, gun-toting human being rampaging through its streets.

There was nothing to see, not straight away. But I could hear the obnoxious whine of a 125cc engine. Quite a puzzling sound considering I hadn't heard such a thing since my former life as an adolescent student.

A motor scooter, or a moped if you will, popped into view, exiting out of Dorchester and carrying a solitary rider. Something long and wooden was strapped to his back, and he was without his motorcycle helmet - a true daredevil. It took several seconds for my brain to confirm that I was looking at another survivor. Just like me, this guy was giving the finger to the decaying world around us. To breath in its air was to resist, to refuse to give up. And to rush into Dorchester on a pathetic excuse for a motorcycle was a testimony to this person's character. And I wanted to be their new best friend.

I made to strap myself back in and intercept this new potential ally, but another vehicle sped out of the town behind them. It was a sleek SUV, dark blue in colour and with a set of tinted windows. Watching the car catch up to the moped sent me into a sudden surge of nostalgia. I couldn't help but think I'd seen a similar vehicle before. And then it hit me. Not the SUV of course, but the memory. I'd manage to suppress the horrifying events of Frome for now, especially the part where Tom and Mo drove away in a shiny SUV, abandoning me to my fate.

I knew I couldn't be that lucky. But deep, deep down, I considered that Tom and Mo may be inside that SUV, chasing after the moped-riding mystery figure.

My seat-belt became one with the buckle and Fresh became acquainted with my almighty driving skills as I thundered along the lane, desperate to catch up to the convoy. Even supposedly crippled by the slow moving moped, they still made good time. I watched them disappear around a wide bend and made the snap decision to take my car off-road Hell, it worked pretty well earlier in the day. Not so much this time round - in fact I probably lost time bouncing over the unhelpful inclines. I finally fell back onto the connecting road and started to push the Citroen to its limit.

West Stafford crept up on me pretty quick. It was a rural mixture of tall housing and interloping farmland. The SUV was nowhere to be seen, so I assumed it had disappeared into this maze of buildings. I followed slowly, ignoring the roaming dead that lined the edges of the road. I was forced to take a right turn - and then glimpsed what I thought could be the back of a moped as it disappeared around a tight corner. I squeezed my way down the street, the sides of my car scraping along the sides of other crashed vehicles. I realised half way down that the SUV wouldn't have a chance of fitting down this street, but by then I was in too deep, and far too stubborn to turn around. An unavoidable chunk of debris struck the side of the car, scraping loudly across its body. I avoided the angry glares from the surrounding Z's. I hadn't thought about it up 'til then, but being stuck in a car surrounded by a mass of hungry dead was definitely in my top ten ways that I absolutely did NOT want to die.

Fortunately I was spared a slow and grizzly death. The chaotic road linked up to another, wider one, which looked like a high street that passed through the centre of the village. Which is usually extremely handy, if it wasn't for the squirming gaggle of zombies that had gathered half way down the road. They surrounded a flimsy bus shelter with urgent savagery, reaching up for their prey and venting their frustration by pummelling anything close to them, in that futile zombie way of theirs.

Forget being stuck in a car and left to die. Imagine being stuck on the roof of a bus shelter? That'll put a damper on your day.

The stranded loner in question was roughly teenager shaped, and had resigned himself to curling into a hopeless ball on top of the shelter.

And if the Z's wanted him so bad, that meant he was alive.

I raced towards the ruckus, beeping my horn as I did so to grab each and every fibre of their attention. It worked, almost too well. I stomped on the brakes, skidding to a halt before the horde, and was met with a sudden and brutal outlash. The Z's, denied of their meal, threw themselves onto the top of my car in what I can only describe as an attempt to bury me in bodies. I hit reverse gear and shot backwards, forcing them to roll from the bonnet and faceplant the ground. I kept on reversing, dragging them away from the bus shelter. I hoped that the kid would have enough sense to make a retreat of his own, but he just stood staring at me, as if I'd done something super awesome like attack a swarm of Z's with just my car, my kitty and my sharp wit. Oh wait, I totally did that.

Saving people is a risky business. It was a struggle to circle back around to the shelter, especially whilst trying to lose the attention of four dozen of the hungry bastards and avoiding the various obstacles and crashed cars that peppered the streets. I made it back though, and he was just where I'd left him. I stopped next to the shelter and pushed open the passenger door before adopting an ultimately cool posture, leaning back in my seat with one hand on the steering wheel. The kid dangled himself from the top of the shelter and timidly dropped to the floor. He approached with a cautiously uncertain lack of grace, like a nervous woodland critter. Eventually he must have deemed me a worthy protector of humanity, since he scuppered into the car seat next to me.

… And began hyperventilating.

I'm not one to interrupt an awkward silence, so I allowed him to catch his breath before offering up a simple 'What's up' in greeting.

His wide-eyed gaze travelled over me as I radiated coolness, and then eventually settled slightly above my head. I remembered that I was wearing a garish, burgundy bobble hat – slightly offsetting my badassery.

I shrugged off my facade and introduced myself formerly, as Luigi, not Legendluigi91. He stuttered through an extended thank you for saving his ass, which made me feel all warm and gooey inside – not that I let it show. Then he told me his name was Ryan.

I guessed that Ryan was nearing the end of his teenage-hood, he had the same curly scruff of neck beard that Mo had once sported in his earlier days. But while Ryan shared Mo's coffee coloured skin and warm, dark eyes, that's where the similarities ended. Ryan was the least intimidating person I'd met so far in the post-traumatic version of the world. Not that I had met a whole bunch of people – but so far two of them had pulled knives on me and the other had shoved a gun in my face, so shy, little Ryan was a welcome change.

In all of the excitement I had forgotten that I was idling in a village full of Z's. My rescue mission had shifted a lot of the surrounding zombies into various parts of the village, but it still wouldn't be a good idea to linger in the middle of a hot zone. I took off down the high street, hoping to get out of town.

It was then that I remembered the SUV, and the moped, and the whole reason that I'd been in West Stafford in the first place. I interrupted another teary eyed thank you from Ryan and asked if he knew just who'd been driving through the village.

He did. According to him, the convoy were friends of his. From the way he'd said 'friends' I decided that there was something more to this relationship than he was letting on. I made to ask him if the SUV drivers had names such as 'Thomas' or 'Muhammad', but a sudden black blur swerved in front of my car.

Ryan flinched, and usually I would have too, but I was getting used to annoying surprises. The moped had cut me up, ushering me down a side road. The rider had to be pretty brave, another person may have just mowed him down. Lucky for him I was in the market for a few more friends to watch my back, so I nodded to him and followed his exhaust fumes, dropping my speed to match his.

Multiple questions popped into my head, but when I turned to demand answers from Ryan I found him shrinking back into the seat, somehow cowed by the presence of this mystery motorcyclist. Something fishy was going on, and I didn't know what. But I was about to find out – the hard way.

It took just two minutes to catch up to the SUV, which had parked side-ways across the middle of the narrow road. Two figures stood stoically in front of it, hands folded across their chests. My eyes were drawn to the biggest of the two, as I drew closer and rolled to a stop I got a good look at him. He struck me instantly as someone I should avoid. He had the meat headed, mean spirited look of the late night roamers who would roll around the streets in their drunken gangs, looking for more narcotics and confrontation. However, I had been brought up not to judge a book by its cover. I opened the door, put on my brave face, and stepped out of the vehicle

'Get out of the car, yeh little cunt.'

Not the sort of greeting I'd been expecting, to be honest. I was momentarily stunned to silence by the insult – then I was realised he was staring a hole through Ryan, who remained strapped into the car.

I hovered by the door and watched Ryan unbuckle himself and shuffle out opposite me. Under the meat-headed guys scathing eyes he walked forward.

'I'm sorry, Ian.'

A hand snatched out, grabbing the whole of Ryan's face and shoving him to the floor. Torrents of verbal abuse followed, spewed out of Ian's foul mouth. Turns out my initial judgement of this man had been spot on. In a nation full of undead monsters I'd quickly forgotten that the bullies of the world still existed. One of them was stood directly in front of me. And his name was Ian.

Ryan (Or 'Abdul', as he was called by this certain, repulsive individual) was ordered into the SUV. And that's a polite way of putting it. Once he was tucked away behind the tinted glass, all eyes turned to me.

There was a tense pause. So I got straight to the point, wanting to remove myself from this group of people as soon as possible. I told them that I had wrongly thought my friends had been driving the SUV.

I was greeted with mocking laughter from Ian the Asshole. The second figure stood slightly behind him, his face emotionless. I found my own face reddening as the laughter continued. After a few seconds it was joined by a second man's – the moped rider had silently crept up to stand behind me. I had a full heads height advantage over him, but that apparently didn't stop him from looking at me with eyes full of arrogant amusement.

'Looking for yer boyfriend, were yeh?'

Ian apparently found his juvenile comment highly amusing. He chuckled again and then suddenly became serious.

'Give us everything you've got.'

What? I'd heard of thieves. And I've heard of assholes. But thieving assholes? This was something I just wasn't prepared for. With a whole village full of zombies just two minutes away form us, why the fuck would we fight amongst each other? To me it didn't make a lick of sense. But then I had the impression that sense was something that these people lacked.

I refused to give them ground and show weakness. So I looked Ian dead in the eye and told him that it wasn't going to happen.

Ian frowned back at me, then turned to his solitary accomplice.

'Is he soft in the fecking head or something?' he asked mockingly, in a dialect I could only just decipher.

He turned back to me, producing a cast-iron crowbar from his belt as he did so. I couldn't take my eyes off of it, and he noticed. He told me that if I didn't hand over my gear that he would wrap the crowbar around my head. And I didn't doubt him for a second.

I hated – absolutely hated – to give in to this guys intimidation, but I had a distinct feeling that I'd be much better off without a crowbar attached to my head.

So I caved. Beneath the penetrating stare from the three group members, I ducked back into the Citroen and grabbed my rucksack from the back seat – hating myself as I did so. Fresh poked his head up from his dedicated area on the back seat. I gave him an encouraging smile, hoping that he wouldn't see through it and realise the potential danger we were in.

Then I pulled the unloaded gun out of the top my rucksack and pointed it at Ian.

A flash of fear replaced the smug look of superiority that Ian's face had previously worn. I felt a surge of pleasure at his sudden change in demeanour. My plan was a simple one. Keep the thieving bastards in check with the useless, empty gun and make a quick, painless getaway. It had worked well two days ago with Dwayne - although the situation had been markedly different.

I let the moment, and the fear, soak in. I swung the gun back and forth between the two figures and took two steps back towards the car. Victory was mine.

THUD!

The next thing I knew I was face down on the ground, filled with nausea and an intense throbbing in the back of my head. I struggled to keep my eyes open, between the foggy vision and reluctant tears I saw a boot lash out to kick away my pistol. It slid to halt in front of Ian.

Before I could watch Ian's face contort into a picture of rage the boot swung back to impregnate my face. I'd gotten used to the casual face smashing that came hand in hand with the zombie apocalypse, but I had never stopped to consider my own face being smashed. It wasn't a particularly enjoyable experience, and it did nothing to ease my urge to throw up. Luckily, I think he avoided breaking my nose.

Until he kicked me again.

I'm not sure what was worse. The pain – or the knowledge that I was going to be marginally less handsome. I felt the cartilage of my nose crumple and distort beneath the boot. It came with an extra strong wave of dizziness, causing my eyes to stream and the world around me to rotate.

'Take the pricks car and leave him for the pikeys.'

I could only assume that Ian was poetically using the term 'Pikey' to refer to the roaming dead. I wasn't about to let myself become fodder, but the fear of another attack from the motorcyclist kept me on the floor – that and the murderous headache.

Words were passed between the group. I made out Ian's boisterous, laddish voice and second, gentler tone. It wasn't an argument, Ian was the blatant leader and clearly was enough of a mental-case that nobody dared question him. But as I listened closely I realised that his accomplice was offering up a different solution when it came to what to do with me.

They called him Lou, so I assumed that was his name. He was a tall, soft-spoken, black dude and I didn't know whether to thank him or despise him when he somehow managed to convince Ian that they were better off bringing me along back to their hideout. I was hauled to my feet by my assaulter, who had sheathed his wooden baseball bat that probably had a couple of my hairs stuck to it, and then roughly pushed into the passenger seat of my car. I let him do it, biding my time and storing my energy for when I could get him alone, and summon up the balls to do something evil to him as payback.

Amongst the excitement of meeting new friends and having parts of my face broken I'd forgotten about my fluffy companion, Fresh. As I sat back in my seat, casually watching the blood drip from my shattered nose, he snaked out of the car to greet the new folk with a simple meow.

I didn't quite catch what happened next. But from the corner of my eye I witnessed the unnamed motorcyclist swing a well aimed kick towards the Fresh. There was a high pitched, catty shriek and then a blur of orange disappeared into the undergrowth that bordered the road.

That fucker just kicked my cat.

Lou crawled into the seat next to me, giving me a single emotionless look to warn me that he was in control here. For once in my life I kept my mouth shut, just waiting for this whole horrific ordeal to be over. But I would be waiting for a long time. Through the windshield I watched Ian step back into the SUV, joining Ryan who had stayed on the backseat throughout the exchange. The rider hopped back onto his moped and kick-started it. He pulled away, taking the lead of the group. As he did so a loud BANG! blasted out from the bikes exhaust.

If I had the energy I would have slapped myself. The mysterious gunshot wasn't a gunshot at all. It was the backfiring of this kids poorly put together motorcycle.

We travelled in silence, passing a wide array of various tree's, shrubberies and other wildlife. Avoiding all villages, the convoy finally began an uphill ascent, entering a massively dense woodland. We were quickly enveloped and the road fell away into a faint outline of an ancient dirt track, which then became nothing. The car struggled over the rugged terrain, as did the moped. But the SUV thundered ahead, cutting a passage through the growth and driving deeper and deeper into the forest.

A lake appeared out of nowhere, and we began to follow it as it curved around, eventually leading us to ring of cars, vans, SUV's and motorcycles.

The various vehicles surrounded a small encampment of tents, all of which varied in size and colour. There were about a dozen of them in total, the biggest and grandest of which was set in the centre of the camp. It was a multi-roomed domicile, with gazebo's sprouting off of each side and walled off with sandbags and barrels, of which there were many spread out around the site, giving the place a fortified feeling.

The SUV slotted in next to the vehicular wall. Up close I realised that many of the cars had been stripped for parts, but left in place to act as a barrier against any outside interference. A small group of adult men lounged forward, discarding their cigarettes and beer bottles begrudgingly. They stepped up to the SUV as Ian stepped out, and set about relieving it of its heavy load. No doubt pillaged from Dorchester, Charminster and the other surrounding territories.

I was beckoned out of the car by Lou. Before joining him on the outside I discarded my burgundy bobble hat. These guys didn't seem like they had much of a sense of humour or any kind of tolerance for funny looking head wear.

Both Ian and Ryan walked past me as Lou began unpacking my gear. Ian gave me a sick, humourless smile and Ryan, god bless his heart, shot me an apologetic glance. Other than that I was pretty much ignored. I wanted to say something in objection when Lou threw my rucksack to the floor to be picked apart by the vulturous gang members, but I was using most of energy up by just standing straight. The crushing pain in the back of head wouldn't relent, nor would the pool of bile in my throat that threatened to regurgitate. I felt small and meaningless in amongst the bustle of activity. So many people. So many faces. I wanted to be relieved that I was amongst the living once more, but this place just didn't seem right.

I snapped to my senses when the activity suddenly stopped. People moved away from the cars as four men approached. They were wearing blue chemical gloves and between them they carried two bodies. Not zombified, like I was used too, but fresh, human corpses – not yet turned. They were both young females. For the most part they looked entirely different. But as the carriers marched past me I noticed that they had a striking similarity. Both of their left arms bore a deep, red, vertical cut. Bleed seeped from both wounds, flowing freely into the dirt. I looked away, and found myself reading the expressions on the other men's faces. Some horrified, others tense, frightened. Almost guilty.

I sought out Ian, searching for a shed of humanity that he might still hold, and found it. His eyes fell onto the young corpses and his face screwed up in fury. He let out a throaty grunt of anger and slammed his fist into the door of the SUV. For a moment he stood there in silence, hunched over. Nobody dared to approach him. Then finally he turned around, his face still a picture of rage.

'Who am I supposed to fuck now?!'

Well, so much for humanity. I was shocked to my core. The group around him suddenly burst out in similar comments, both of anger and blame. I stood and listened as they spoke of the girls. Not with love, not even with a shred of affection. But as meat, as toys they had used. It was too much for me to handle, and I began to back away from the mob as their anger grew.

Just as I considered making a break for it, a man was pushed to the middle of the group. He was grey haired and muscular, and tattoo's covered a good part of his neck and face. Ian grabbed the man by his throat and shoved him up against a nearby car. His verdict was that this ageing man had left his knife laying around, a knife that was then used by the two girls to end the tormented lives that these animals had forced them into.

Even in a healthy body, there wouldn't be a thing I could do against such a viscous horde of men. Ian's fist sunk into the other man's face twice, drawing both blood and cries of mercy. Then came a knee to the stomach and a brutal headbutt. An uneasy quiet had fallen, accentuating the strikes as they landed. Feeble groans and wet, ragged coughs rung out loud and clear. Nobody was having fun anymore, except Ian. But nobody moved to stop the savagery, until-

'ENOUGH!'

The shout brought a sudden end to the scene. Ian shied away from the beaten man, and the others suddenly found jobs to busy themselves with. I looked over at the source of the noise and saw a scrawny, bearded man exiting the central pavilion. The authority in the voice did not match the character, but the authority in the shotgun he carried was undeniable. What's more surprising is the police hat he wore, and the clean, white shirt. How any person could look so neat and orderly during a time like this was beyond me.

He shot me a single look, raising his eyebrows as he did so. Then he stomped towards Ian, stopping at the side of the man that had been beaten. Orders were shouted out, calls for a medic to patch up the poor guy. Then he singled out Ryan to get back to centre tent and boil the kettle. I wouldn't get my hopes up yet, but this shotgun wielding bloke was starting to look like a shining diamond amongst a sea of asshole-shaped rocks.

The leader of the pack had a lengthy discussion with Ian. During which he pocketed my empty pistol, reluctantly handed over by Ian, and then gave me a second, more thorough looking over. I forced myself to stare right back at him, letting the last streaks of blood dribble out of my crooked nose.

In the end they reached some kind of decision, the leader turned and walked back towards his tent. A shove from Lou told me that I was being summoned to the command centre, which was fine by me. I preferred my chances with the federal looking fellow rather than the man with blood-stained knuckles.

I was pushed through the camp, past the gloomy tents, many of which had small fire pits dug in front of them, next to these were the leftovers of the kind of food that I'd been living off, next to that were knives, bats, machete's, axes. You know, the usual tools of a zombie slayer. And scattered around the site were empty beer cans, crushed cigarette butts and... other, more disgusting, items. I won't go into that.

The pavilion, the centre tent, the command centre. Well, that was a different story. Like the white-shirt leader of this little gang, the tent was clean, bright and tidy. The main room looked like a cross between an office and a lounge. A desk sat in the middle, on which lay my empty pistol and the heavy shotgun. At the desk sat the now bespectacled leader with a cup of tea in one hand and one of my maps in the other. Behind him Ryan sifted through my rucksack, occasionally pulling out an item of interest.

The man peered at me over the map.

'Where did you find the gun?'

We sort of stole it from the body of a near deceased member of the royal airforce after she had been bitten and infected by her zombie partner. We then watched her reanimate and destroyed the unhealthy part of her brain. It's a thrilling tale that I hope to one day tell my grandchildren about. That was the true story, but I wasn't about to tell Mr. Fancyshirt that.

'Vending machine.' was my answer.

I earned a small smile from Ryan, at least. He let the map drop to the floor and folded his arms. He reminded me of one of my former school teachers who would smile falsely at me whilst commenting on how much of a menace to society I was. He opened his mouth, no doubt to assert his authority, but I interrupted with a question of my own and asked him just who the fuck he actually was.

I expected rebuttal, not the truth. But he launched into an introduction and a small dosage of his life story. His name was Jarvis, and he was a prison warden for Her Majesty's Prison of Dorchester. Not quite what I was expecting, but it explained the police hat and the shotgun.

I wanted to ask more, but he held up a hand and again asked me where I had found the gun and such a detailed set of maps. The prison warden story seemed legit, so I made the decision to reward his honesty with some of my own. Only some, I offered a spoonful of truth with a cocktail of falsehood. I told him that I'd found all of my kit in a downed helicopter and had quickly used up the guns ammo. I made no mention of the pilot, or the airport.

He bought it. And allowed me to ask my next question, which was what had happened to the prison during the outbreak.

The evacuation of Dorchester had began early on in the initial days of the apocalypse. The plan was to move the community in parts to the refugee camp, and then ferry them via helicopter to Southampton, where ships awaited to transport people away from the Isles. Not much had been said about the prison or its inmates and its small staff force had ultimately decided to abandon it, leaving behind only Jarvis – the senior officer. And a single shotgun.

He had held down the prison by himself, keeping the prisoners in line with the weapon, using it only when necessary and for the most part keeping them fed and watered, as was his duty. A month passed before news came that the refugee camp had fallen to the overwhelming number of undead. As had the city itself. The time quickly came when the Z's had broken into the prison, desperate to get hold of the last remaining survivors. And when that time came, Jarvis escaped.

Already knowing and dreading the answer, I asked him what had happened to the inmates.

And he told me I'd already met them.

The prison mostly held youngsters, drink drivers and the minor offenders. All of which had been released as required by the law when the pandemic spread to England. What was left were the true criminals. The murderers, the rapists, the arsonists, the drug addled robbers. The worst that the south of England had to offer. In an act of desperation to preserve his own well being, Jarvis had released the remaining prisoners to help battle the risen dead. At the end of the melee and after escaping Dorchester there were barely a dozen inmates left, led by Jarvis and the supremacy of his pump action weapon.

Being in the presence of a former officer of the county didn't do much to counteract the fact that I was currently sharing a camp with a small army of psycho's. An image of Ian's sneering face floated into my mind, and I wondered what he'd done to land himself in prison. It would have been my next question, but Jarvis hit me with one his own and asked how I'd survived so long without assistance.

The truth was I hadn't. I'd barely survived at all. Stumbling from one mishap to the next, probably only staying alive because I'd been with two absolute golden friends of mine. And when they'd left, I'd hat a cat. Which is similar. I told Jarvis about the Frome catastrophe, and how I'd travelled the rest of the way solo. Which he told me was a commendable achievement. I nodded a silent thank you, and felt a subtle splinter in my nose, followed by a single drop of blood falling onto the desk. The darkness of it reminded me of the jagged cuts that pierced the skin of the two girls who had been carried past me upon my initial arrival. I frowned at Jarvis, how could a man of his status allow that to happen?

At that moment a curtain was pulled back, giving me a glance into one of the tents three other rooms – a bedroom. A young girl, similar in age to the others, walked out from the room. She held a tray filled with the beautiful ingredients of a genuine cup of tea, the likes I hadn't had since I left my comfy little flat.

A cup was placed in front of me and filled with the aromatic, tawny liquid. I reached out to grab it and the girl flinched away from me. Bemused, I apologised and watcher her walk back to her room, refusing to meet my eye.

Jarvis intercepted my rising anger with a sudden, desperate monologue. Stressing the fact that he was just one middle-aged man with a gun, without which he wouldn't have a chance in hell of controlling the rabble outside. At any moment, they could decide to turn on him, to slit his throat in the night, and to counter this he does his best to keep their spirits high, their bellies full. Sometimes its easy, organising supply runs into the surrounding settlements. Other times its not so easy, and he has to do things he's not proud of. Things that will eat at him until the day that he dies.

Several weeks after establishing their camp in the woodland a plan was made to ransack whatever remained of the Dorchester refugee site. They did so, and upon arriving they found three young women, trapped inside a transit van. They were swiftly rescued by Jarvis and his gallant band of inmates, who then offered them safe refuge back at the camp, which they accepted with no questions, just grateful to be alive. Jarvis promised to keep them safe from the horrors of the outside world. I guess he didn't mention that the camp held some fucked up horrors of its own.

I couldn't keep quiet anymore. I told Jarvis that he was just as bad as the convicts outside. They'd been locked up for a reason, to keep people safe from the atrocities they were willing to commit. For whatever reasons, he'd given them a second chance, and released a group of savages back out into an already savage world. Jarvis wasn't willing to do his true duty and control them, so instead he tried to pacify them and fulfil their carnal needs with whatever resources he came across. Their needs of alcohol, their needs of nicotine and narcotics, and their needs of flesh.

Three girls, kept as slaves. I couldn't help but think that the two that had taken their lives were the lucky ones.

I stared at the shotgun. Jarvis seemed to read my mind.

'We can't kill them all.'

And it was true. A gun doesn't make you a god. If Jarvis marched outside and started firing, he could probably take down two or three before the numbers added up. And then what would become of the girl?

We sat in silence for a small while, a painful silence, thanks to the lump that was forming on the back of my skull. I drank my cup of tea and tried to make sense of the situation. At first I just wanted to leave, if they'd even let me. But now I felt different. Could I really abandon Jarvis and the girl to their bleak fate? I still couldn't trust him or his motives, not entirely. But he seemed so earnest and conflicted. Like he was desperate to do the right thing but just couldn't summon up the strength. And the girl.. Well, that was just a sick injustice, something that needed to be put right. I knew that Jarvis feared the inevitable loss of control. And I had a feeling if Jarvis were overthrown then Ian, being the craziest fucker in town, would gain leadership of the camp. And that wouldn't be good at all.

I looked at Ryan, who was huddled by the side of the tent, listening intently to the conversation. I assumed he was a straggler that Jarvis had picked up along the way, someone he trusted with the information that we'd been sharing. I nodded to the room which the girl had disappeared into and asked why we didn't just leave tonight.

'And go where?'

Retrieving the map from the floor I confided in Jarvis the Starcross theory. I showed him the question mark that had been drawn next to Exmouth, the coastal town, and more importantly, the circled town of Starcross which lay on its outskirts.

Jarvis asked me what it meant and I admitted to not having a clue. But considering the majority of the major cities on the maps had been boldly crossed out it was our only hope. Jarvis ran his finger over the map and pondered. After a few moments he seemed to reach some sort of conclusion and shake his head.

Hope. Not something Jarvis feels strongly about. He shrugged off my master plan, certain that whatever lay in Starcross had been overrun, just like Dorchester. The flaw in his logic was that it was lacking any sense of logic. I called him out, telling him that anywhere was better than being stuck in this shithole. He wasn't convinced. I would have questioned his morals, ethics and lack of genitals, but he chose that moment to lay a calm hand on top of the shotgun. Reminding me that, well, he had a fucking shotgun.

The entrance to the tent was unzipped, and in came Ian. I noticed Jarvis' hand close more tightly around the gun, not a reassuring sign.

'Need more beer, innit.'

Poetically put, considering his poor grasp of the English language. Jarvis reached into the desk and threw him a key, one of many that he kept. Ian grunted a thanks and made to leave, but turned at the exit.

'And ehm. The lads 'ave been asking about... Y'know.'

He trailed off, looking pointedly at the curtain that separated us from the girl's bedroom. I closed my eyes, trying to remember if I'd ever hated somebody more than this cretin. No dice.

'She's mine tonight, Ian.'

What? I stared a hole through Jarvis as Ian smirked and exited the tent.

'That'll keep the dogs at bay for tonight at least.'

He winked and took his hand off of the gun. I breathed a tentative sigh of relief, for a second I'd seriously considered launching myself over the desk at Jarvis' bluff, shotgun or no. He called Ryan forward and asked if he was willing to share his tent for tonight, which he was. While I wanted to feel thankful, I was sort of used to sleeping in my car. Either way I felt it best not to argue. I was just grateful that I'd been offered to stay at the camp for the night. I could've just been sent on my way with nothing but my shattered nose – which would have made it slightly more difficult for me to sneak into the the main tent, liberate the young lady for her imprisonment, steal my car back and then make for Starcross.

Yeah. If you thought a baseball bat around the head and a well-armed pack of prison escapee's was going to scare me, then you clearly don't know me at all.

If Jarvis was too scared to do something about this travesty, then it was up to me. It was the only thing keeping me here, well, that and the unending supply of biscuits. I already had a half-formed plan rolling around my head as I followed Ryan back to his tent, stopping to grab a spare sleeping bag and pillow.

We passed the rest of the inmate's as they gathered around the campfire. They didn't seem to think very highly of Ryan, though he seemed a decent enough kid to me. Ian's accomplice, the guy who had kindly warped my face out of position with his boot, gave me a malicious smile and congratulated Ryan on finding a new boyfriend. We ignored the laughter, and my thoughts changed to cruel plans of revenge.

Ryan's tent was the smallest and least waterproof of the lot. He apologised for the mess, even though there wasn't any, and then settled into his sleeping bag and started playing Snake on his phone. Guess what? He's got a freakin' solar phone charger. His phone is literally charged by solar power. It's brilliant. I'd never even considered that.

He wasn't a talkative chap, it took a while for him to feel comfortable enough to confide in me how he'd stumbled upon the camp. Which was exactly what had happened. His family had been ambushed by Z's a few miles away and he'd spent two days roaming the woodlands before he spotted the camps fires. Voila. He spoke well of Jarvis, who had taken him in as a sort of assistant in running the camp. A decision that Ian wasn't entirely happy with, apparently he didn't trust "His sort".

Great. So as well as being a bullying rapist, he was also a bigot. A real catch.

I felt comfortable enough in Ryan's presence to pull out my own phone, still with a fairly good charge from my morning drive, before all the ugliness happened. I was tapping away on the notepad before you could say 'Surrounded-by-evil-bastards'. Before long me and Ryan were comparing phones and arguing about who's had the better specs, whilst munching on his stash of biscuits. It was like old times.

We were interrupted once by a man named Hendryk. He was the camps appointed first-aider and had an enticing polish accent, as well as a handle bar moustache, which I resisted poking fun of. He took a look at my nose and administered a small dosage of familiar looking painkillers. I had a feeling they'd been taken out of my own rucksack. As soon as he'd left I quizzed Ryan on his back story, both to gain a little intel on my potential rivals and to satisfy my curious bone. Ryan began by telling me, to my surprise, that not everybody was as corrupt as Ian, just those he had managed to influence and bend to his ways. Hendryk was in the minority in that he was actually a fairly decent guy, according to Ryan. He'd admitted to serving six months in prison for dabbling with Insurance Fraud, and had publicly called out Ian on some of his more severe wrongdoings and for his bravery had received several methodical beatings. Good thing he was in charge of the medical supplies.

I'd stayed in my new tent for the majority of the day, unwilling to socialise with the other occupants. Sooner or later I'm going to have to leave, at least to take advantage of the extensive water stores and moderate supply of shampoo. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had clean, springy hair. And of course to prove to these guys that I wouldn't be beaten by them. Although, technically one of them _had_ beaten me. Whatever. It would take more than broken bones and blackened eyes to shatter my spirit.

You know, I think I've typed so much that the ends of my fingers have started to morph into blunt nuggets.

Ryan left the tent a half hour ago. Probably to report back to Jarvis everything I'd said. I don't blame him, I haven't given them much reason to trust me – not that I even wanted their trust. It would just be broken anyway when I ruined their little regime. Jarvis had assured me that for tonight at least the inmates would go unsatisfied, and that gave me a night of planning, healing, biscuit consumption and courage building.

And tomorrow... Shit will go down.

I can already smell it.


	21. 20092011

****User: LegendLuigi91**  
><strong>Date: 2009/2011**  
><strong>Subject: Mucky Muck Land<strong>**

It was a rough nights sleep, believe it or not. Ryan was a bit of a sleep-mumbler, except he alternated between languages at random intervals, which made it really hard to follow. Other reasons for a crooked back in the morning included the flimsy layer of polystyrene between myself and the rugged ground beneath me, and the fact that I wasn't entirely comfortable falling asleep only a dozen feet away from the guy who had hit me in the back of the head with a bat, broken my nose in several places and then kicked my cat.

It was safe to say I had a bit of a grudge against him.

His wasn't the only grudge I held. I had a small grudge against Ian for being an absolute evil bastard. And I was tenderly harbouring minor grudges against his group of minions. A couple of the camp members had earned slim particles of trust from me, mainly Ryan, but I was reserving judgement on both Jarvis, the camp leader, whom I couldn't help but feel sorry for, and Hendryk, who had given me an aspirin and taught me some polish swear words.

The aspirin was for the head injury I'd sustained yesterday. It lessened the continuous stabs of pain into a manageable dull throbbing. My nose was a different story, Hendryk wasn't a legitimate doctor, so he didn't posses the knowledge of how to straighten my nose back into place. I'd not yet had the luxury of a mirror, so I could only guess that the uneven nose had weakened my claim of being the most dashing person to survive the zombie uprising. At least my winning smile had survived the ordeal.

But enough about that. I woke up earlier than usual, just after the sun had risen. It took several moments for me to recall what had gone down the day before and remember how I'd ended up sharing somebody's tent. When my head had cleared I noticed that Ryan was missing. I had no doubt that he was being ridiculed by the other camp members or assisting Jarvis in, well, whatever the hell he does, so I did my best to analyse the drastic situation I'd dropped myself into.

Yesterday Ian had wanted to leave me in the middle of the road, which said a lot about his character. I recalled his discussion with the tall dude, Lou, who must have convinced him to bring me back to the camp. I should probably feel grateful, but I had a tough time figuring out which was worse; the outside world, dominated by zombies. Or this camp site, dominated by thugs and convicts.

My talk with Jarvis had convinced me that this wasn't a place I wanted to call home. And at one point I was ready to leave, even if they had rummaged through my kit and claimed everything useful. I'd stepped into an injustice, but I had been willing to walk away from the fact that a band of ex-cons had taken up residency in the local woods. What I couldn't walk away from was the atrocities that had been committed here, the unforgivable invasion of flesh. Two girls had been carried out from the camp, their bodies used, abused and discarded. Not just a violation of the body, but a violation of the identity and spirit. It wasn't horror enough that those girls had to watch the world around them turn to ruin, or witness loved ones killed, eaten and turned into mindless beings. They had suffered through that and survived it, a feat accomplished only by the unlucky few. Jarvis had dangled the thought of a fortified camp in front of them like a carrot on a stick, guaranteed safety from the cold bodies that lurked in the shadows. It had turned into a snare, and they were caught in a web of carnality.

It doesn't say much for the campers that the girls had taken the first chance presented to them to end it for themselves, rather than suffer more time in their company.

If it had stopped there then things, while still tragic, would be much simpler. But then a catalyst by the name of Carolyn had entered the picture. And what a picture it was. Strokes of oppression on a canvas of abuse. She tiptoed around the camp under the watchful, appreciative eyes of the inmates, avoiding direct contact as best as possible. I noticed that her earlier timid disposition had altered somewhat. Perhaps she had only just now been informed that the two friends she'd been locked up with had committed suicide, but she walked with a cold fury that I'd often associated with my former colleague Mo. It was a quiet defiance, and one I hadn't been expecting.

What had I been expecting? A damsel in distress? A pretty, chained up lady-love just waiting to be rescued? This wasn't a fairy tale, and if it was then it was written by some seriously fucked up fairies. I was a little ashamed that I'd assumed Carolyn to be defeated and defenceless. The fact that she'd survived long enough to be taken in by Jarvis was a testimony of her strength, and that strength gave me strength.

I sat outside of my new tent-shaped-house with a cup of tea to warm my hands and watched as she weaved between the myriad of tents, heading towards the water stores – three large units full of bottled water that had been transported on a trailer from the refugee camp, a camp which had been overrun by the Z's just outside of Dorchester. She hefted a cannister over her shoulder and headed back to the central pavilion, ignoring a perverted request from a lingering camper.

I'd not yet taken advantage of the abundance of water that these guys had procured. According to Ryan it was mostly filtered lake water, as the original high quality stuff had been squandered within the first few weeks. There were daily runs to replenish the empty bottles, one of the many duties that Jarvis had assigned Ian and his crew. I'd yet to be given any hard labour to do, but I figured it wouldn't be long before they'd make me work to keep this unwelcoming roof over my head.

I passed within five yards of Carolyn as I walked to the water stores. It was the closest I'd been to a woman – that hadn't tried to kill me – since the infection hit. A fact that my brain picked up on, and then wildly suggested that I say something cool and funny to her.

Words rumbled around in my head, I thought of cool words, and funny words (Like kerfuffle) but I couldn't think of any cool _and _funny words. I settled on 'Hello, I'm Luigi.', it was short, sweet and to the point.

I turned around and muttered the magic words – just as Carolyn's shoe snagged on a stealthy tent peg, sending her flying into the ground.

My gentleman mode activated in an instant, and I launched myself to her rescue. I knew first hand how annoying it was to fly into the ground, and clutching a cannister full of water couldn't have done much to improve the situation. I scooped up the now half-empty cannister in one hand, and with the other made my first mistake of the day. I reached out to offer Carolyn my hand.

Time slowed down as the tip of my finger lightly brushed against her upper arm, then fast-forwarded as she spun around and elbowed me directly in the face.

My jaw crunched out of place, soaking up most of the elbow. On the positive side, she hadn't hit my already demolished nose, which would have probably reduced me to tears. By the time I'd recovered from the assault she was already stomping away, back towards the centre tent. I probed around my face in an attempt to find a spot that wasn't hurting – at least my eye balls hadn't yet been injured, that was something.

When my mind returned to the real world it was introduced to a moderate helping of laughter. Apparently half of the group had witnessed the kerfuffle (That word isn't so funny any more). And to them it was undoubtedly the funniest thing ever. I took note that the loudest of them was the youngster they had nicknamed 'Nutter', for reasons I'm beginning to see. I guess he fancied himself as a bit of an artist, as he'd done a fine job of rearranging my face with his boot yesterday.

Shutting out the laughter and regaining whatever composure I had left, I accomplished my mission of cleaning my face, hoping also to wash away the shame of my first encounter with Carolyn. In hindsight it probably wasn't my finest idea. She knew as little about me as I did about her – and considering she had been forced into the company of escaped convicts, her interests in meeting new people had probably been placed underneath other goals such as, well, surviving the camp of horror.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Feeling slightly cleaner than usual and thoroughly frozen, I decided to follow camp protocol and refill the water container that I'd emptied over myself. I'm good mannered like that. The lake was easy to find since the camp site was placed along its edge. It acted as both a murky source of water and a naturally-made defensive perimeter, at least for one side of the camp. The others had been walled off with a layer of derelict cars and vans, driven here from the refugee camp and then siphoned for fuel. It was messy, but it worked. A bit like my nose.

I found awkward company at the lake. Lou was already there, soaking a spare set of clothes to rid them of the various fluids encrusted in them. I hadn't had a whole lot to do with Lou since he'd driven me to the camp in my own car - a car which I'd not seen since and had probably faded into the scenery like many others. Lou skipped a formal introduction and instead offered a comment on how my face looked like shit. An acutely blunt observation, and one I ignored.

There was a groovy filtering gizmo for the lake water which Lou talked me through - In went the unattractive, gloomy water - and out of the other end the semi-appealing, partially-clear drinkable liquid was pumped. Scrumptious. The chit-chat lulled into a stiff silence. Lou had finished washing his clothes, but still lingered. I had a feeling he had something to tell me, but when I turned away from the lake I was greeted with a delegation of footsteps. The footsteps belonged to boots, whom belonged to the men wearing boots. I recognized only one of them. I didn't know his name, but from the mixture of tattoo's and blood-swaddled bruises covering his face I knew he was the man that Ian had beaten for leaving his hunting knife lying around. I noticed he had a new knife strapped to his belt, which paled in comparison to his other weapon: A fireman's axe, duct-taped to the end of a broom handle for added length. A makeshift pole-axe? I approve.

Apparently me and Lou had been assigned our daily jobs. Lou was to accompany Ian on a petrol supply run. I didn't envy him, I had a feeling any time I spent with Ian would take a serious toll on my brain cells. It was for that reason that I counted myself lucky to be placed on Team Inkface. I'd be running with Shawn (The pole-axe swinger), Hendryk (The Polish nurse) and two randomer's whom I hadn't had the pleasure, or displeasure, of meeting yet. They mostly kept to themselves and when they communicated it was only with grunts, glares and swigs of whisky – which led me to assume they were Ian's prison buddies.

Shawn gave me the heads up on what to expect. We were going to drive back to the abandoned refugee camp and start dismantling what was left of the barbed wire fence. It was Jarvis' plan to bring it back to their own camp, piece by piece, to add to the already formidable defences.

I was handed back my bat and my knife. Well, not _my _knife, but the knife I took from the infected man I'd met on the highway a few days back. I guess it was mine now, he said I could keep it after all. It felt nice to once again grip the blunt force of the baseball bat that had accompanied me half way across the south coast of England. The warm, wooden bat lent me a much needed peace of mind. I no longer felt utterly defenceless.

We were assigned two cars, one of them being my Citroen as it was still carrying a copious quantity of petrol, thanks to my efforts. I was over-joyed to be reunited with the car, it was a brilliant little runner. Hendryk would be my road-buddy, and unlike the other camp members he showed me a thin tendril of trust by tossing me the car keys.

After fumbling the catch and retrieving the keys from the ground, we set off, trailing behind Shawn and his two officers in their hefty pick-up truck.

I admit that at several points during the short trip through the woodlands I considered swerving away from the track and leaving Camp-Kill-Yourself behind.

The sweeping images of Ryan, Jarvis and Carolyn prevented me from doing so. I wouldn't be leaving that camp until I'd convinced them to come with me. Hell, I even felt a strange affinity for Hendryk, who sat silently beside me while humming to himself and periodically cleaning his glasses. Lou also held a tentative spot in my... well, not heart, but maybe a kidney or something. He was among the few campers that hadn't assaulted me, questioned my sexual alignment, insinuated I would soon be fed to the zombies or generally made me feel completely unwelcome. He'd instead taught me how to pump water and commented on the irregular position of my nose. And for that I was determined to reserve judgement.

The solemn sight of the refugee camp greeted us as we curved around the small, placid village of Charminster and began to hurtle along the road. Zombie activity on these streets had increased since yesterday, probably thanks to the abrasively loud backfiring of Nutter's motorcycle, something Jarvis hadn't appreciated. The moped was deemed too dangerous as the sound would no doubt attract attention. Jarvis ordered it to be syphoned for fuel and added to the wall of vehicular debris.

Nutter wasn't a fan of the decision, but relented after several minutes of manic tantrums, which I found pretty damn amusing.

Hendryk ordered me to pull ahead of the other car as we neared the abandoned camp. I did so, and then became suddenly encumbered by the sheer amount of zombies. Whilst these guys were seasoned zombie slayers, I felt a trickle of OH SHIT flavoured sweat roll down my head. I was forced to stop as the cluster of Z's thickened. A couple climbed onto the front of the car to press their half-flayed faces up against the window

I struggled to comprehend how we'd so quickly got into such a mess. The second car should've been right behind us, ready to back us up and take some of the heat away if we needed it. And we most definitely needed it.

A slow realization crept into my mind as I sat there beside Hendryk, watching the armada of dead bodies blend into one unified, rotten mass. Had this been there plan all along? Send the new kid and his polish sympathiser out into the world, surround them with zombies and then leave them there until they starved, ate each other or died from lack of oxygen. It was brutally brilliant, and I hated myself for falling into such a trap.

I took my anger out on the steering wheel, pounding it twice before Hendryk caught my arm and gave me a bespectacled, awkward smile, it stopped me in my tracks, potentially saving the steering wheel from a further beating.

At first I wanted to rip the smile from Hendryk's face, but then an improvised pole-axe embedded itself in the head of the zombie directly behind my car door. The force of the swing carried the axe through its head and crashing into the window, just a few inches from my face.

The glass refused to break, thankfully, and instead sent a spider web of small cracks spreading out from the point of the axe, which removed itself rather quickly and continued to spread decimation amongst the zombies.

Well, thank fuck for that. We weren't the trap after all. Instead we were the willing distraction, letting the Z's crowd around us and smell our lovely, warm-blooded bodies before the reinforcements swept in with hammers, axes and crowbars to pick them off one-by-one. The guys weren't as efficient as I'd expected them to be. Their effective but brutal style held a stark contrast to my former parter, who's nunchuck techniques were cold, calculated and coated in bad-assery.

It worked though, the Z's dropped like flies. And the flies, well, they flew away. Which was nice, because fuck flies. Me and Hendryk exited the car and were quickly tasked with moving the bodies to the side of the road. Because a clean road is a safe road, or something. It was hard, sweaty work, which at least kept me warm on an otherwise chilly morning. Once the bodies were moved and my hands were drenched in unnaturally tepid body fluids, we refocused our attention on assisting Shawn and the others. They had moved along to the front of the camp, where the fence had caved in on itself and created a small breach, which we had taken complete strategic advantage of.

The opening was only a meter wide, enough for two bodies at once. We stood on the outside looking in, whistling softly to get the attention of the closest Z's. They quickly took the bait, as expected, and began to group around the breach. Like I said, they could only come two at a time, so we stood our ground and began taking heads.

A single zombie is only a threat if your caught with your pants down. They can catch you if your distracted, or feeling safe, or if your senses are dulled for whatever reason. They can get the jump on you if your ears aren't opened to their signature sounds, the unsteady shuffle of their feet, the low grumble that begins in the bottom of their throat and ends, rather exultantly, with their teeth biting down on your flesh. If your surroundings are too noisy then you lose that advantage, but you can still rely on your nose, broken or not, to sniff them out. It's not an easy thing to describe, perhaps the smell of a rancid loaf of meat left to bake in the sun and saturate in the rain, and don't forget the presence of maggots and flies – a complete contrast to the rich, bloody smell of recently killed woodland game. Mingle this with the stench of unclenched bowels, emptied and uncensored, spilling their excrement onto the lower torso to add the unforgiving smell of dried zombie-shite.

My general rule is that if I can smell a fetid worm-and-steak sandwich with an accompanying piss-and-feces salad, then I better get ready to break some skulls.

The true danger lies in the horde. Or the swarm – whatever you want to call it. A car may seem unstoppable, it's a box of metal after all, but I've seen a deer get hit head on, then limp away into the wild, leaving a mangled, unresponsive heap of shrapnel behind. Your car has a life line, and throwing it into every zombie you see will wear it out until, like an unsharpened knife, it's rendered useless. And if you throw that car into a genuine zombie roadblock, you'll find yourself stopped dead in your tracks, a few crushed zombies laying broken on the floor, and a dozen others that you didn't stop, ready and willing to surround and impound. And if you're without a car, well, sucks for you.

That being said, we were severing heads at an astonishing rate. Rotating our offensive front line after every couple of swings to keep us fresh and sprightly. It was going swimmingly right until another section of fence collapsed under the pressure of several infuriated Z's, just a few meters to our left.

One of my nameless friends grabbed hold of my arm and dragged me over to help counter this new problem. I reached the first Z and sent my bat rocketing into the side of its head, spraying a waterfall of blood and bone fragments through the air.

As the thwarted zombie fell to the floor, a spurt of sticky blood launched itself from the newly opened wound in its head, hitting me square in the face.

There's no poetic way to describe it. It was icky. Really icky. I scrambled away from the oncoming throng of Z's, wiping the red goop away from my mouth and eyes. In the confusion I backtracked into my partner, sending him tripping over and into the floor.

Before you could say 'Tickle me Elmo,' they were on top of him. Three corpsified bodies suddenly dropped to the floor beside his struggling form, burying their teeth and claws into his flesh.

I was _not_ making a good first impression.

My mind slipped into a murky fog as the gruesome scene unfolded before me. Someone far away in the distance was shouting at me to do something, anything to help their companion, who's blood-soaked, screaming figure attracted more and more Z's, each one eager to join the feast. There was a crunching of sinew and bone as an arm was ripped from its socket, bringing forth another high pitched howl of desperation.

The screams faded to wrenching coughs and finally a slow, bubbly gurgle as his throat flooded with blood. It was only when his sunken eyes rolled back in his head to fix me with a final, accusing death-stare that I regained control of my own body.

It isn't often you see a man eaten alive just a few feet away from you, but somehow I managed to keep my composure and suppress the sickened tremor that jolted through my insides. I've seen things. Horrible things. I've met zombies of every shape and size, with every style of bodily deformity. I've witnessed first hand the painful process of dehumanization that follows a zombie bite, the mental and physical regression. It was something I prayed to whatever deity remained that would never happen to me.

But with all that in mind, so far on my travels I hadn't yet witnessed a human being ripped into a dozen small, digestible pieces by the bloodthirsty masses, writhing beneath a pyramid of primitive creatures with what few limbs he had left and watching his intestines being used as dental floss.

I snapped my arms up to let loose with some serious batting action, not realizing that the bat was rolling away from me after I'd discarded it to wipe the congealed blood out of my face. My next best option was the knife tucked into my belt. It quickly became untucked, and I slammed it, dropping to my knees in the process, into the head of the closest Z.

There was no hope of saving our doomed comrade, but I could still wreck some shit up in his honour. Ex-Con or not, nobody deserves to be dissected like that. Well, maybe some people.

The zombie at the end of my knife stiffened, then went limp and slid off the blade. I had to snatch my arm back away from the twisting pile of Z's to avoid the ever persistent threat of the zombie bite, although in their determination to destroy any evidence that our convict buddy ever existed they refused to even acknowledge me, or their suddenly slain friend. There aren't many things I like more than a helpful advantage, so I dived back in to grab a fistful of zombie hair. I pulled back the Z's head and stabbed into its temple, a soft part of the skull only made softer by the rotting flesh. With a short moan of defiance the zombie accepted its free ride into the afterlife, as did another as Shawn stepped in to back me up, dropping an axe into the pile-up and detaching a head or two.

Hendryk and the other companion left their opening to lend us a hand, and soon we had the situation back under control, although with far more spinning heads than I was comfortable with.

All in all we had killed dozens of the things, a fair achievement and something I was proud to be a part of, even if the company left a little to be desired.

The celebration was cut short, however, when the remaining prisoner who's name I hadn't yet learned grabbed hold of my coat and shoved me into the ground.

I made the mistake of using my hands to cushion the fall. One of then hit the ground hard, jarring my arm, whilst the other landed on the recently crushed skull of a zombie. I mentally ticked 'Play with somebodies brain goo' off of my fucked-up-things-to-do list.

A steady stream of swear-tacular insults followed the shove. Hendryk squeezed himself between me and the angry man, who was shaking a hammer in my general direction and raving about how I'd stood by and done nothing while his friend was eaten alive. I kept my mouth shut because, as a small, guilty voice in my head informed me, he was pretty correct. I could've reacted faster, but a half-blinded, baseball batless Luigi is not a helpful Luigi, not that he stopped his shouting long enough to listen for that explanation.

I noticed Shawn lingering in the background, cradling his pole-axe and watching the drama. He was eyeing me up with the barest whisper of a smile on his face. If I had time to feel creeped out I would've, but my attention was mostly focused on not giving the wild-eyed, hammer-shaking dude any more incentive to bludgeon me in the middle of the road.

After a few more minutes of accusations and verbal abuse, Hendryk somehow managed to calm things down, and whilst I don't think anyone thought me entirely innocent, they certainly seemed less inclined to physically maim me.

After putting our shouty voices away and making a shaky truce, we set to carrying out our assigned mission. It was our job to somehow dismantle enough of the refugee camps barbed wire fence to add it to our own camps perimeter, deep in the woodland. All in all, a clever idea, and a good way to piss away my afternoon. It wasn't in my agenda to help these guys get better fortified, especially when I was planning to royally screw up their little escapade when I had the right amount of intel, support and confidence. But, I also needed to stay in Jarvis' good books for the time being, and it wouldn't hurt to earn a little trust and repair some of the damage I'd done by watching Nameless Convict #8 get butchered.

It worked. I was swapping jokes with Hendryk and Shawn in no time. The other guy completely ignored me, which I guess is too bad for him, because I've been told that I'm a good guy to have around on a cold, zombie-filled day of drudgery.

Finally. Finally I had revenge on my old nemesis. The barbed wire fence crumbled beneath my fearsome gaze. Never again would my dreams be haunted by the memories of my hand being riddled with holes thanks to a well secured airport and the serrated barbs that defended it.

It turns out digging up barbed wire fences is mind-numbingly hard work. It's been a while since I slaved away for someone else's benefits, so I was slightly out of practice. The fact that the posts holding up the fence had been cemented into the ground didn't help much either. We resigned to cutting away individual sections of the fence, rolling them up carefully using industrial leather gauntlets, and then securing them in the back of the pick-up truck with grappling lines.

Shawn made a total of four trips back to the base throughout the day to offload the fencing. The first time he came back he broke the news that Jarvis and his fellow campers were less than happy with losing a fellow camp member. At least Shawn had apparently done his best to be vague about the circumstances surrounding his death. I appreciated it, but I knew that as soon as the others got back to camp the real story would get out. And when that happened it might quickly become my ass roasting over the camp fire.

After hours of strenuous labour, and an almost unending trickle of zombies that had marched single file towards us to be greeted with a sudden and fatal ending, our work was done. We were going home. Well, they were were going home, I was going with them to some place filled with all sorts of potential danger.

I rode in the truck on the way back with Shawn. I was willing to sit through an uneasy silence for most of the journey, but after a few moments on the road he surprised me with a enthusiastic pat on the shoulder.

'Strong effort, kid.'

Can't help but a agree there. I almost broke a sweat today, what with the rolling, and the stacking, and the killing.

'Just stood there and watched him die. Chilling.'

Huh? I raised an eyebrow at Shawn, who smiled back at me through his bruised and battered face. There was a small moment whilst I considered correcting him on the matter. I didn't stand there and watch him die. Well, not on purpose anyway. The truth was it happened so fast I was genuinely shocked into stillness.

But I stayed silent, not willing to risk losing Shawn's sudden support. After all, Ian had beaten Shawn close to unconsciousness only yesterday, and Ian had the majority of the camp backing him up. If this elderly tattoo enthusiast was against Ian, then that meant we were allies by default. Like the old Chinese proverb said: The enemy of my enemy has a pole-axe, so don't fuck with him. Or something like that.

So I accepted the knowing smiles that Shawn sent my way on the drive back to camp, and I nodded along when he muttered about "Those bastard faced boy scouts" that we were living with.

As expected, my reception upon returning to the camp was cold. Really cold. I was mostly ignored, and partially ridiculed. I took it all on the chin, to bite back at them now would be foolish. One man against many rarely turned out well. So I kept my eyes downcast and assisted in offloading the last rolls of barbed wire fence. Jarvis came out of his hideaway to oversee the process, which was probably why any aggression towards me was kept to a minimum.

I'd gone most of the day without food, so with the fencing packed away and my duties officially over I made my way back to the tent I shared with Ryan, which was stuffed with tinned goods and biscuits.

Ryan himself was sat on a tree stump, warming his tan hands over a small camp fire. Next to him sat Hendryk, who caught my eye and sent me a subtle wave.

I stashed my baseball bat into the tent and kicked off my boots. In my books nothing else could end a day better than toasty feet, slowly acquired from an open fire. I stomped over to Ryan and Hendryk and dropped to the ground, feeling the full strain of a hard days work in my shoulders.

I propped myself up on my elbows and directed my feet at the fire, filling them with a relaxing warmth. And for a while, I was content.

'What've we got here, eh? The polack, the punjab and the prick. What a fuckin' freakshow.'

It was a voice I'd grown uncomfortably familiar with. Nutter stood a few paces away from our fire, looking down at us like we were a speck of shit on the tip of his shoe. His words sent a prickle of anger through my spine and I found my face automatically forming into a frown, and my eyes turning to frost. I looked at Nutter with the most murderous stare I could muster, and he looked straight back at me.

Then he smirked and spat a globule of phlegm onto the ground, and moved on into the night.

The anger lingered with me as I let my toes roast and scooped spoonfuls of warm beans down my throat. Nobody spoke, not even when Shawn joined us at the fire and passed around a bottle of vodka. I took a swig, even though I'm more of a cider man, and passed it to Hendryk, who guzzled down a mouthful or three. Ryan took the bottle next, and in the light of the fire I could make out a yellowish bruise forming beneath his eye. No doubt made by Ian, Nutter or one of the other goons.

My temper didn't get a chance to simmer down. I decided that my feet were suitably warm and wobbled back to the tent to reclaim my hiking boots. It was upon picking up one of my boots that I sensed that something was very, very wrong.

For starters they were wet, although it hadn't rained at all. Then through more exploration I realized they weren't the cold wet of rainfall, they were moist and slightly warm. And they didn't smell of water at all. They smelt like something entirely different. It took five seconds for the explanation to hit me, and it hit me like a freight train.

My boots were drenched in piss.

It was like the chilly snap of a twig, yet at the same time it was similar to the flinch-worthy smashing of a mirror. The anger that had been boiling beneath me suddenly spilled out through every pore of my body, it was released into the brisk night air, taking all my caution and submissiveness with it.

I picked up one of my boots, ignoring the squelching sound it made and the droplets of urine that trickled down my fingers.

With it, I marched towards the main camp fire, just as everybody around it burst out in laughter and turned to look in my direction. Nutter had just finished telling them the hilarious story of how he had unzipped his jeans and covered the new guys boots in piss. The triumphant grin on his face as he turned to look at me sent my temper into overdrive. I could think of only one thing to do.

So I threw my piss-soaked boot at his face.

Before it had even hit the ground I'd already curled my fingers into a fist, located a suitable part of Nutter's face introduce it too, and thought up a couple of worthy one-liners to say out loud after I'd knocked him out.

But then I found my arm freeze in mid-air. I was suddenly unwilling to commit to the brutal beating that I wished upon Nutter. The humanity lover inside me was screaming at me to stop, that attacking another human being was undoubtedly wrong in every way. I felt my fist soften and my anger subside slightly. The laughter had faded also, leaving behind a shocked silence and also-

CRUNCH. Nutter sent his forehead into my jaw, cutting off whatever stupid thought had stopped me from giving this cretin the thrashing he deserved. It also reminded me that my jaw had already taken a small beating this morning, when Carolyn had elbowed me in the face.

My anger returned in full as a fist swung into my ribs. It was then I knew that I'd entered into my first fist fight, something I'd been careful to avoid so far in life.

The next time Nutter sent a fist my way I had the good sense to avoid it, letting it skim past my cheek and into the nothingness behind me. I found my arms answering his attack for me, dashing out to punch him once in the side of the neck, and then again with my other fist, curving around to hook him in the cheek.

He fell back, but a ring of humans had formed around us and somebody caught him, shoving him back towards me. He used the momentum to send another swing at me, but it was uncontrolled and off balance, easily avoidable.

I did one better and used what little ninjistics I had to catch his fist in my own hand, clamping it shut like a vice. I think the awesome display of reactions shocked us both, I stood for a second without fully knowing what I should do next. He recovered quicker then I did, and with his free hand me punched me directly in the forehead.

The thing about foreheads is that they're made to withstand punishment, the skull is thick for a reason, so I was pleasantly rewarded with the sound of breaking bones as his fist connected with the hard part of my head, I counted at least two of his fingers snapping. Sure, it left me with a slight headache, but its far harder to fight with a broken finger, I can assure you. The advantage was mine for the taking, and I threw everything I had into my next punch, which hammered into Nutter's nose. As did the second, and the third.

The fourth and fifth met only air, because Nutter's knee's had given way, dropping him to the floor. I guess that made me a winner, but as I stood there with an aching head, a still-throbbing nose and most of the skin missing from my knuckles, I didn't feel like I'd won anything.

The anger was gone in an instant. I guess I'd achieved whatever goal it had tasked me with. Without even acknowledging the surrounding crowd I picked up my dripping boot and stomped away, pushing through Shawn and Hendryk, who watched me leave with wide eyes and gaping mouths.

There were a few whistles, some jeering and a shed load of muttering as I walked back to my tent. I made out Ian grumbling a few orders, clearly displeased with Nutter's performance. I didn't care, all I wanted was to crawl inside my sleeping bag and fall asleep for a year.

It wasn't easy. As soon as my face hit the ground I was overcome with unexpected tremors as my jumbled mind struggled to piece together what had just happened.

As soon as my hands stopped shaking I grabbed my phone, switched it on, made sure I had a suitable amount of battery power and then began typing.

It helped, It really did. I felt the whole day come back to me as I relived it, as I did every day, by typing it into my last true companion, my phone. The tremors subsided, and eventually Ryan joined me in the tent. He didn't speak a word, but I'm almost certain I felt some kind of empathy from him, or perhaps approval, as he slid into his own sleeping bag and began his slumber.

And now I think I'll go to sleep. The uncharacteristic brutality I'd shown my fellow man (If you can consider him a fellow man) would either earn me the respect of the campers, or condemn me to a redoubled attempt to break me. So if tomorrow I'm stripped naked and beaten until my lungs stop working then so be it. At least I sent that little shit face first into the dirt.

Maybe next time he'll think twice about who's boots he pisses on. That's assuming he has the brain capacity to think twice about anything.

Beaten, bruised, but not broken. Luigi out.


	22. 20092011 Part 2

**User: LegendLuigi91**  
><strong>Date: 2009/2011**  
><strong>Subject: Moonlit Mutterings<strong>

I managed about ten minutes of sleep before the combination of rough terrain, bruised knuckles and repeating flashbacks of a man being swallowed, quite literally, into the waiting stomachs of a swarm of Z's. In the short time I lay awake I must've relived that moment a thousand times, seeking the exact point where I was momentarily distracted, and he was subsequently incapacitated and set upon by the mob, like a pack of feral dogs.

I sat up rather abruptly. Despite the cold wind that whistled through the camp I was sporting a sticky sheen of sweat across my forehead. Ryan was snoring softly beside me, happily asleep. I was sort of jealous. Sleeping soundly wasn't something that came easy for me these days. On the other hand I found the ease that Ryan could fall asleep a bit unnerving. Ryan is a good kid, unlike the others that share this camp. For one thing he has a conscience, not to mention morals and a solid education. But even so he had absorbed the casual viciousness of the camp in his stride, trading his free will and dignity for a little protection, a moderate amount of scorn and a regular stream of abuse. And that abuse came in all sorts of flavours; verbal, physical, mental, racial. It was so frequent that it became accepted as a camp routine. If you didn't insult Ryan on a daily basis then you couldn't be considered part of the cool kids, also known as Ian and his merry band of bastards.

Because of this, I was no doubt the least popular person at camp. Perhaps watching one of the aforementioned cool kids die in front of me had also helped pave my status as camp reject. But whatever, if aligning myself with the only decent people in the camp meant that I was looked down upon by a group of escaped inmates then I was willing to pay that price.

That didn't make sleeping any easier. In fact, the constant fear of a group of angry men dragging me out of the tent and throwing me into the woods was enough for me to sleep with at least one eye open.

But at that moment both my eyes were open, looking for anything to steal my thoughts away from the earlier events. Failing that, I figured a little fresh air could clear my head. It took me a few attempts to fumble open the tent zipper with my numb fingers, but once open I welcomed the lick of wind on my frazzled, beaten face.

The ground beneath my feet was thankfully solid. The night was dry and frosty, so I wouldn't have to worry about my feet sinking into the mud. I only had my socks on, after all. My boots lay discarded somewhere near the smouldering remains of the camp fire, probably slowly roasting into some kind of leather and piss concoction. I tiptoed past the fire, not to remain stealthy, but because every step I took sent an icy lance up my foot.

The friendly socialite inside me was drawn to the torch lights that swept along the edges of the camp. Three men walked the perimeter at all times, as silent and as dark as the night itself – except for the heavy duty torches they carried. They also kept a weapon or two close at hand, and a sports whistle for alerting the others in case things got a little hairy.

Usually I'd be tempted to go over and introduce myself, make some small talk, share a knock-knock joke or two and walk away with a new friend. But with my popularity plummeting by the day I'd receive a chilly stare at best, and a knife through the ribs at worst. My childhood care worker would probably rebuke me for such a blunt and shallow observation. She would always be saying such whimsical things to me as 'Don't judge a book by its cover,' and 'Put that fire out, dickhead,'.

But what she didn't know was that I'd seen the cover, skimmed the blurb, studied the text and read between the lines, and the facts remained that these people were both immoral and volatile. Their patience for outsiders was on a short, strict leash, and I'd already leapt a good mile past it. I'd wager the only thing keeping my head attached to my shoulders was Jarvis. Or I should say the granite authority of Jarvis' shotgun.

And while I'd somehow kept myself out of Jarvis' bad books, I won't pretend he wasn't furious that one of his men had been killed today, because he was. For some reason he was fond of the convicts, or at least the muscle they provided. His fury was controlled at least, and like the irritating sting of a wasp I was sure it would come back to prick me when I was least expecting it.

Feeling unmotivated and uncured of the ongoing anxiety in the back of my head, I decided it was about time I acquainted myself with the food stores. The good thing about biscuits is that they are less likely to get you murdered than other things, such as undesired human contact - unless you choked on a chocolate bar – but that's the sort of bitter-sweet death I'd prefer over the countless of other options that had made themselves available to me after the world had been turned inside out.

My thoughts had quickly entwined themselves with the needs of my stomach as I snuck across the camp. If everything else fails to take your mind off something, then tempt it away with sugary snacks. In all the physical festivities I'd not had a chance to binge recently. Mo and his insatiable lust for all things unhealthy would have frowned at me if he knew I'd been a stone throw away from several barrels full of stale biscuits and hadn't yet taken advantage of them. I could instantly summon an image in my head of his best, frowny face. Dark, fuzzy eyebrows plastered diagonally above his disapproving eyes, the frizzy hairs on his chin quivering with pity and contempt. Mouth hanging partially open, unable to offer support but always willing to propose complex, profanity-laden actions that would often involve the violation of some kind of exotic animal.

I will never admit this out loud. In fact I barely let myself think it for more than a few seconds. But I desperately miss him. Like a brother taken too soon, like a ragged, too-small blanket ripped from a child's arms and never seen again, yet always remembered fondly for the jaded warmth that would only cover half of its body. Like a-

Nope. Times up. Back to being my regular, manly self.

Lost in my thoughts as I was, I almost missed the shadowy figure crouching to my left. In fact I would've passed, quite unaware, if it wasn't for the frantic whispered conversation that drew me away from my musings.

The voices abruptly ceased as I turned to examine my surroundings. I found myself facing the towering pavilion that acted as the central point of the camp, the epicentre that the other tents sprung from, like the roots of an ancient, foreboding tree. It was both a command centre and the living quarters of Jarvis, not to mention Carolyn, his reluctant guest.

A familiar body sat beside the tent, his face only inches away from the room that I knew was where Carolyn slept. His dark clothes and skin concealed him perfectly amongst the pitch blackness of the night.

It was Louis, sitting as still as stone, looking up at me and probably hoping I'd dismiss the strange sight as something I didn't want to involve myself in. His hopes were moot, because I was both mightily curious and yearning for some kind of human interaction. I approached boldly, by this time my exposed feet were close to turning into twin blocks of ice and the cold wind made it hard to smile. I opened my mouth to offer a word of greeting but Louis intercepted with a quick, sharp question.

'What are you doing?'

Unexpected as it was, I didn't hesitate to plunge into a merry war of words.

'What are you doing?'

'I asked first.'

'I asked second, and I'm taller.'

'Only because I'm sat down.'

'Fair point, why are you sat down?'

'I had a cramp.'

'You should probably stretch your legs.'

'Maybe I will.'

'Maybe you should.'

'Maybe I'm going to.

'Maybe I'll watch.'

There was a brief pause as he stood up and met my eyes, an easy three inches and ten years my senior. He remained expressionless, and then the corner of his mouth twitched into the barest murmur of a grin.

'You look like a twat without any shoes on.'

'You look like a twat regardless of your preference in footwear.'

That comment earned me a scowl and a middle finger. I kept quiet as he stalked away into the night, fading into the darkness with ease. Another comment could've awarded me a black eye and a new enemy, or another microscopic smile. Louis was a closed book to me, less readable than a goats autobiography, written in clotted cream and un-spellchecked.

'Hello?' I asked the tent, feeling more than a little silly and not expecting it to give me much of a reply.

There was no answer.

I returned to the tent full of suspicions, theories and a pocket that had been crammed to the brim with an assortment of biscuity goods. They hadn't done much to soothe my wandering mind, but the discarded crumbs had crept into my sleeping bag, sending a dozen small itches across my back.

It was oddly comforting, in a lonely, nostalgic way.


	23. 22092011

****User: LegendLuigi91******  
><strong>****Date: 22/09/2011******  
><strong>****Subject: Them Bones****

Things were going so well. Sort of. I mean, things were going okay... ish. For a while anyway. I'd tried my best, my utter best, my utter-partial-non-committed best to keep my head low, my hands in my pockets and my tongue in my mouth. I hadn't started any fights, I hadn't watched anybody die. I'd spent eight hours trying my hardest not to re-puncture my hand while handling barbed wire. I'd been the perfect lackey, an unfailing example of the subservient labourer. It wasn't enough. I fucked up again. I fucked up bad. On this day there is more blood on my hands than ever. Warm blood. Human blood. And if I ignore the numbness and the shock, if I beat away the emotions and expose the jagged truth...

Well. Lets not go there. Not just yet.

Upon waking from my itchy slumber I had a hard time recalling anything that had happened during the previous day. The conversation with Louis beneath the starry sky could well have been a dream, but at the touch of my chilly, blistered feet I knew that I had indeed been traversing the camp site by nightfall, searching for acceptance and biscuits. I'd instead found Louis, hiding away and communicating in secret with Carolyn. Either that or he was talking to himself, a theory I hadn't yet eliminated.

Other images slotted into place. The fist fight with Nutter, which through some miracle I'd won – probably because he was all talk, and I was twice his size. Plus I happened to be fighting for the justice and well being of all mankind, among other things. Then, in no particular order, there was the bottle of vodka around the camp fire, the certain unfortunate zombie incident, Shawn's uncomfortable friendship and a sudden elbow strike to the face courtesy of Carolyn.

It was a mixed bag, really.

Ryan had woken earlier than me, which was unsurprising. Compared to myself he was remarkably more useful and less likely to cause trouble, and therefore held in high regard by Jarvis. I had half a mind to let Ryan continue serving as he did, it was his choice after all. But another part of me wanted to break his shackles, stick a hatchet in his hand and begin a righteous crusade side-by-side. It was a delicate issue, and I was approaching it with care.

The clutter of pots and the scraping of spoons brought me outside at last. Biscuits can only take you so far, eventually you need to consume something more solid, like a tin of warm beans. I did just that, using Ryan's gear since I'd not been given my own yet, and my previous kit had been taken from me.

Two pairs of boots dropped from the air, landing in front of me where I sat cross-legged in front of the tent. It was a welcome gift, and while I was pretty darn grateful, I didn't let it show. I glanced up to see who had gone through the trouble to find me a decent pair of stompers.

It was Louis. He stood over me, blotting out the sun with his lanky frame. Eclipsed as he was I couldn't make out his face, but I had no doubt that his expression would be as non-existent as always.

He told me that I was on his team today. We would be assembling the barbed wire fence along the eastern side of the camp and I would be ready in fifteen minutes.

As soon as he'd said all he needed to say he was away again, walking across the camp to inform the rest of the workers of their respective missions. I watched Ian, Nutter and several other of their creed load up two of the SUV's, ready to make a supply run for whatever the camp happened to be running short on.

My heart sunk an inch or two when Ryan exited Jarvis' tent and made his way towards Ian, looking mighty sullen. I noticed he went weapon-less, and I realised I'd not yet seen Ryan wielding anything more dangerous than a knife and fork since I'd been here.

If my memory served me well, the last time Ryan had accompanied Ian on a supply run, he had ended up stranded on the top of a bus shelter, that is until I strapped on my superman cape and swooped in to lend a helping hand. I hoped things would turn out differently this time, and until he walked back into camp I promised myself I wouldn't relax.

What followed was a day of blood, sweat and blistered fingers. The leather gauntlets helped me avoid lacerating my hands, but the simple strains of manual labour still took their toll on other parts of my body.

Holes were dug. Posts were staked into the ground. Vicious rolls of barbed wire fencing were stapled to the posts and stretched taut around the camp. Immobile vehicles were manoeuvred out of the camp and around the edges of the new fence, creating another layer of defence. Everyone worked hard and I didn't hear a single complaint. These guys weren't afraid of a hard days work, especially if it meant a safer, less zombie-inhabited place to live.

Louis kept us on our toes, worked us hard and made sure we always had enough water and chocolate to keep us going. That's not to say he idled on the back lines, he worked himself just as hard as anybody else, all the while keeping an eye on the construction, the provisions and keeping in contact with the look-outs.

We had the bulk of the work finished by sundown. We'd used up all our available fencing and covered two thirds of the camp perimeter. We expected it to be finished within the next couple of days, but for now we'd earned ourselves a hot meal and a good nights sleep.

The meal I accepted graciously, Hendryk had offered to cook me a tin of "Special pasta". He refused to tell me what was so special about it, but there was a definite hint of vodka in the food, something Hendryk kept close by at all times. For the medical purposes, of course.

Shawn also made an appearance at dinner, probably after catching a whiff of vodka. The bruises that masked his face had receded enough that I could now make out the tattoo that crept across his lower jaw. It was brightly coloured wing, attached to the half-naked harpy that covered his neck and disappeared beneath his collar. It had faded with age, giving the harpy a dusky snarl. I found it hauntingly beautiful, and was eager to know the meaning behind it – but a hand suddenly crept into my view, clutching my shoulder and half-spinning me around.

My reflexes sent me scuttling away from the grappling hand, naturally avoidant of such things in the night, but a deep chuckle let me know that it was just Louis paying me a visit. He took my place on the log shaped bench, or perhaps it was a bench shaped log, whatever. Robbed of my seating, I sat myself on a solitary patch of grass opposite Louis. He was staring, and suddenly devoid of laughter. His face had resumed its stony demeanour.

'They left Ryan behind.'

Fuckity-Fuck-Fuck. My near exhaustion had swept any thoughts of Ryan from my mind. Ian, Nutter and two of the other blokes who had accompanied them had arrived safely back at camp an hour ago, carrying the news that Ryan had gotten separated from them when a group of Z's smashed their way through a pub window, hoping to chance upon a slab of man meat.

Ryan was lost in the resulting chaos, but Ian had still managed to transport five unopened kegs of beer back to camp, which made him a hero in the eyes of the happy campers. Nobody seemed to batter an eyelid at the fact that Ryan was nowhere to be seen. Nobody except Louis, who felt obligated to tell me.

I was half way to the camp entrance when Louis, Shawn and Hendryk realized I'd gone and decided to back me up. I can fondly recall the surge of warmth towards them as we marched towards the opening of the new fence, beyond which was a staggered row of functioning vehicles.

Two men rose to meet us as we approached the cars, abandoning their crudely assembled picnic table where a half-dealt game of cards still lay. They were the assigned lookouts for tonight, so naturally they felt it was their duty to interrupt my sudden crusade. According to them the car rental scheme was only available during daylight hours, and any complaints should be made directly to the camp leader.

I considered simply ignoring them and taking the keys anyway. I also considered, with less conviction, storming into Jarvis' tent and giving him the news of Ryan's disappearance, and demanding that he let me take the SUV to search for him. Yet, I still didn't consider Jarvis fully trustworthy, and disturbing him in his sleep wouldn't earn me much merit. From our original conversation on my first night at the camp I had felt he was an altogether decent person, but wiser men than I once said actions speak louder than words, and his actions had so far been limited to ordering people around while holding a shotgun, which hadn't done much to help me decide his moral inclination.

Luckily I was saved from making any decisions. Louis stepped in front of me and began to haggle his way towards hiring one of the cars. He spoke to the men with casual familiarity, joking and teasing in a way that I would never feel comfortable with. That's not to say I lacked charm, because I don't. Hell, I reckoned I could sell an ice cream to an Eskimo if I was passing through Alaska and fancied a challenge.

But currying favour with a bunch of convicts wasn't my particular cup of tea. Sure, some of them were genuinely nice guys, like Hendryk, but others were genuinely spawned from the armpit of hell, like Ian. So I left that line of work to Louis, who finalized the deal by swapping a couple of pouches of tobacco for a bit of car time.

It wasn't until I was half way into the car that a distant rustle in the woods tore my attention away. I'd normally put it down to the wind playing tricks on me, but it was closely followed by the snapping sound of a breaking branch.

I disengaged myself from the car, dropping my hand to the knife at my belt and willing it to lend me some comfort. By the time the next branch snapped, just a few meters in front of me, I had been joined by the others, including the two look outs. We stood, shoulder to shoulder, each with a hand on our respective weapon, watching the midnight swell of forest in front of us.

A moment of quiet followed, solemn and tense, then a barrage of sudden noise startled us a few steps back. The tangled growth before us came to life with a violent, shuffling movement and the rustle of disturbed foliage.

And then Ryan burst through the nearest bush, directly into my arms.

Hendryk almost fell over himself with surprise, as did one of the lookouts. The other seemed to mistake Ryan for an attacking zombie and raised a machete over his head, eyes wide with shock. Shawn had the good will to make a grab for his arm before he brought the machete down into Ryan's spine, which would have put a certain damper on things.

Everyone eventually calmed down, and when Ryan regained consciousness and the use of his legs, I guided him back to his tent. He stammered out a stream of disjointed sentences, often repeating the words 'Zombie', 'Ian' and 'Hate'. At one point he also refereed to Nutter as a skin-headed pillock.

He'd fallen asleep in seconds. Louis waited for me outside of the tent, and quickly demanded to know if Ryan had been bitten, or scratched. I assured him there wasn't a speck of blood on the outside of his body, just a few new bruises that I'd suspected were Nutter's work. His dislike of Ryan had apparently increased since I'd bested him in the barbaric sport of hand-to-face combat.

Upon hearing that Ryan was relatively unharmed, Louis reverted back to his normal solitary self, and our talk meandered into the mundane. It was a little infuriating to see him rebuild his personal force field, especially after we had bonded over the misplacement of Ryan.

And then he surprised me, his face quickly morphing into a look of the purest rage. At first I cowered back, thinking it was intended for me, but I then realised his eyes were looking past me and towards the centre of the camp, where Ian had just exited the tent that Jarvis and Carolyn resided inside. Ian's face resembled a slapped ass, which is to say he looked rather pissed off. I should mention that Ian usually looked pissed off, for some reason or another, but tonight it went beyond his usual facial structure.

So Jarvis was awake after all, and he'd possibly just had an argument with Ian. This meant that Jarvis would be more on my side than ever. I decided it was a time for chat, and left Louis to seethe quietly to himself, for whatever reasons.

There was no knocker, or doorbell, so I presumed it would be fine for me to just walk on into the tent. I found Jarvis bent over his desk, wearing nothing but a blue dressing gown and a pair of rectangular glasses. I took a quick scan of the surroundings, noting that his shotgun was leaning against his leg, and my maps were scattered over a long table at the side of the tent. It indicated that perhaps Jarvis had reconsidered his stance on the elusive Starcross mystery.

He looked up at me in a fatherly way, and then grimaced. Not as happy to see me as I would have liked. I shot him back a frown of my own and informed him simply that Ryan had returned.

He raised an eyebrow, and asked for me to elaborate. Curious, I guess Ian had a convenient bout of amnesia when it came to reporting Ryan's mishap to Jarvis. I did as I was asked and elaborated, not hesitating to call out Ian on his douche-baggery, and questioning the motivation behind sending Ryan to accompany him in the first place.

Jarvis was silent for a while, and I took the time to ponder over the many items scattered across his desk. There was a couple of notebooks and an abundance of loose paper, covered in scribbles. Unfortunately I'd never taken a class on upside-down-reading so I wasn't sure what had been written. There was also a couple of digital cameras, and if I didn't know better I'd assume Jarvis enjoyed the delicate art of photography, but then again I didn't think Jarvis let himself enjoy anything.

Eventually he gestured to the opposite chair and I sat down beneath his piercing stare. He took a sip of long-cold tea and launched into a strikingly honest eulogy.

His intentions had been to keep an eye on Ian, as well as his closest followers. The eye had been Ryan, someone who had shown nothing but good intentions since he had been taken in by the camp. The arrangement wasn't ideal, due to the ill feelings that Ian entertained towards Ryan, as well as Ryan's lack of confidence, which the others hadn't hesitated to exploit. So far Ian had taken every opportunity to leave Ryan in the dust, which explained why I had discovered him on the top of a bus shelter prior to being reluctantly accepted into Camp-Kill-Yourself.

I let this information stew around in my head. I knew the solution instantly, but it would certainly put me in a whole new puddle of danger. Although, I'd never been one to shy away from danger, or puddles, and when it came to protecting my friends, it was a foregone conclusion.

My suggestion was to remove Ryan from the situation. Keep him at the camp and away from Ian and his minions, allowing him to continue work as Jarvis' loyal assistant. Taking his place would be me, Luigi De Fritos. The reluctant hero. The eye that never blinks. The milk that never curdles. Swinger of bats and protector of hapless teenagers everywhere. It was a sacrifice I was sort of willing to make, because I had no doubt that Ian and Nutter would put every effort into making my life a living hell.

Well, I was already living in a living hell, but they'd make it worse. Somehow. Sort of like coming home to a broken kettle on a rainy day. That kind of hell.

To his credit, Jarvis spent a long time raising eyebrows, expressing his distrust of me and questioning my true motives before he agreed to let me replace Ryan. And with that subject happily concluded I moved the conversation into another territory, once more bringing up the topic of Starcross and its possibilities.

Jarvis admitted his curiosity on the matter, which lent me a small kindling of hope. I decided to storm ahead with another suggestion. I tried to keep the desperation from my voice when I urged Jarvis to let me take a car to Starcross, and perhaps let Ryan and Carolyn accompany me. It would take two days at most, we'd be back before anybody missed us. And as disturbing as it was, being out of the camp and amongst the dead would be safer for us than being here, amongst the living.

The request was instantly declined, but I had a feeling that I'd caught Jarvis' attention, and hopefully the idea would gnaw at his brain until he was forced to let me have my way.

My conversation with Jarvis didn't stop on that particular subject. I couldn't leave without enquiring about Carolyn's health, safety and... well, lack of freedom. Jarvis had the nerve to rebuke me, and then implied that my interest in Carolyn's safety may go beyond a moral kindness, and may be a camouflage to darker intentions.

At that point I stood up and left, not trusting myself to keep things civil and knowing full well that a confrontation with Jarvis could end up with me being kicked out of the camp and losing the chance to help Ryan and Carolyn. That was the happy ending, the unhappy one was me leaving in a body bag with a shotgun flavoured crater in my face.

I was more than horrified that Jarvis would suggest such a thing. I was one of the few people in the camp not to be locked in a prison during the earlier days of our little apocalypse. Unpleasant thoughts of Jarvis, Ian and the other Neanderthals rumbled around my mind as I tried to sleep. It would be a long time before I considered that perhaps Jarvis had only accused me of bad intentions so I would leave the subject alone once and for all. But I am a stubborn entity, and I mentally swore to double my efforts at liberating myself and my friends from this camp. I included Carolyn in my list of friends as a foolish hope, I knew full well that she considered me less than stimulating. But, y'know, stubbornness.

It was around half-past eight the next morning that Jarvis announced to the campers, to my immense satisfaction, that he had chosen one of us to travel to Starcross, a potential safe-haven that could well be full of lovely warm-blooded human beings. A grumble rolled through the assembled crowd, apparently the others weren't as thrilled as I was at the news. I fully expected to be chosen as the trusted emissary that would carry the flaming torch to Starcross, illuminating the path to freedom.

But in the end an unambitious randomer named Larry was chosen. The only notable thing about him was that he only had three teeth. And off he went, happy as a camper, driving away into the sunrise. There was one more insult. He went in my Subaru, taking with him my phone charger.

My mood remained grim and hopeless as the morning moved on. That day would be my first as a devout member of Team Ian. I quickly explained the situation to a relieved, yet worried, Ryan, and then informed Hendryk and Shawn, so that if anything happened to me they knew who to blame. I didn't expect them to avenge me or anything, but to be honest I was feeling apprehensive about my task, and also, well, a little scared. Only a little. A tiny, minuscule amount. Like a speck of dragonfly dung.

Both Shawn and Hendryk thought I was an idiot. Hendryk flung his hands in the air, swore several times in Polish and walked away. Shawn remained, but only long enough to tell me that if one of the members of my team was to have an "accident", then he wouldn't hold it against me. Then he winked at me, which made the harpy tattoo on his face do a little dance. I nodded along to his words without conviction. I had no more interest in fighting another human, it just seemed down right diddle-brained. There's a thousand and one things to worry about on this planet, why add another to that list?

The dude I was carpooling with wasn't much for small talk, so I left him to wallow in his silence and refrained from letting him know that he had missed out on the chance to get to know me. Poor guy. We were tailing Ian, Nutter and another randomer whose name I hadn't bothered to learn. Our destination was Dorchester, and its abundant riches. In my hands I held a short shopping list, as well as a roughly drawn map of the town. We were hoping to get our hands on some medical supplies, as well as a truck load of timber from the local lumber mill.

The journey to Dorchester was quiet, quick and uneventful. The main entrance into the town was gridlocked with abandoned cars and wandering dead. We took a detour around its outskirts, leaving the road and slipping into a less infested area. Both cars kept to a slow pace to minimize noise, and we trundled along the streets with only the most eager of Z's making the effort to follow.

It was only when discovering an upturned police car that the convoy came to a stop. Ian was the first person out, taking an interest in the vehicle. Myself and the other three scavengers set about making a defensive perimeter, so Ian could crawl through the broken window of the car.

His round head and bulging torso disappeared into the car. I secretly hoped that a lurking zombie may still reside inside the broken mass, waiting for someone stupid enough to poke their nose into its business.

I was cut off from that thought, as two mobile bodies had wandered a little closer than I was comfortable with. My partner sauntered forward, drawing a knife, and I took a firmer grip on my baseball bat. A heartbeat later both zombies were significantly less mobile, and entirely more dead.

There was a shout from the police car, which my brain first interpreted as one of shock, or perhaps pain, but was actually the noise Ian made when he was happy about something. He had crawled backwards out of the car, dragging with him the crushed body of a former police officer. Nutter and the other man crowded around Ian, blocking him and his discovery from view. I assumed they had discovered an unopened can of lager, or perhaps a dirty magazine.

It wasn't of my concern, so I placed myself back into the passenger seat of the car, and let them celebrate amongst themselves. Eventually I saw Ian hold up a small, transparent pouch, which was quarter filled with white powder. I hadn't a clue what substance it was, but when they began taking it in turns to rub it around their nostrils I theorised that it probably wasn't sugar.

I was uneasy before, and knowing that my driver was high on some unknown powder stolen from a wrecked police car didn't make me feel much better. He at least managed to keep his hands steady on the steering wheel as we manoeuvred through the decrepit roads of Dorchester. We soon drove onto a wide, empty avenue, which displayed a pattern of dead bodies along its streets. Many a battle had been fought here, and I soon found out why.

'The Frog and Nightgown Inn' was a shabby little hideaway tucked between two chunks of housing. I was surprised to see only a meagre number of Z's littering the road as we pulled to stop outside the pub. Ian was the first to climb through the broken window and into the building, the others followed, with me bringing up the rear.

Before I'd even placed a foot on the ground Ian had already opened up a derelict cool-box and grabbed himself two lukewarm bottles of booze. The main room would've once been a cosy, fire-lit lounge. Now it was a musty dwelling of dampness and despair. The ceiling leaked in several places, and it would be a challenge to find a chair that wasn't missing a leg. I guess there was one minor positive, the room itself stank of cigarettes and alcohol rather than leaking zombie guts.

For thirty minutes the group occupied itself with inhaling narcotics and comparing weapons in a meaningless competition of manhood. Knives were sharpened, glass bottles were thrown into walls for entertainment and not a lot else happened.

The mundanity of the situation eventually led me to build up enough nerve to ask when we were going to get some actual work done.

Four heads slowly turned to regard me, eight eyes sharing an equal confusion. Perhaps the suggestion of doing some actual work had stunned them into stupidity. After a moment or two Ian stood and regarded me. I was suddenly aware of just how dangerous this situation could become.

Ian came so close to me that I felt his rancid breath on my face. If he wasn't a good couple of inches taller than me, our noses would've rubbed together. He placed his slab-like hands onto my shoulders and shoved me roughly against the wall.

There wasn't much I could do. His arms were bigger than my thigh's, and his beady, black eyes – the size of which would usually be rather funny, considering how small they were compared to his giant head – bore into mine, rendering my resistance futile. I didn't struggle, I was just thankful that I hadn't pissed myself.

'Listen, yeh little prick,'

He grabbed himself a handful of my hair, and yanked my head sideways, possibly so I could hear him better, or possibly because he's an asshole.

'Yeh might have yer claws into the old man like, but if yeh think yeh can come into my house and stick yer nose into my business, then yer sorely fucking mistaken? Right?'

Right. Lesson learned. Don't fuck with the steroid filled, cocaine sniffing psychopath. It's things like this that they should teach in school, not trigonometry or frog dissection. I kept a firm leash on my tongue, not that I had much argument – I'd only understood half of his dialect.

He released his grip and backed away, clearly pleased at establishing his status as alpha male. The others, who had watched the scene with suppressed humour, went back to their beer swigging.

Ian joined them, but not before calling Nutter forward and giving him a muttered command. At first Nutter seemed a bit miffed, but after a few more words from Ian, as well as some suspicious laughter, he grabbed his bat and headed for the broken window, motioning for me to follow. My lack of trust for his good intentions was slightly outweighed by my fear of looking even more pathetic in front of the group.

I followed Nutter out into the street, against my better judgement and dripping with bravado. He took up residency in the car, taking the drivers seat for himself. We drove a few streets over, where the zombies were a far more prominent threat. My unease grew as their population increased, along with the tension in the car. Nutter drove with the casual care of someone who doesn't give a shit. Z's bounced off every inch of the car. I suddenly knew why most of the vehicles back at camp looked as if they had been break-dancing.

Nutter tossed me a heavy key as we passed several pizza places and a tesco's. Our end destination was an Argos store, the retailing kings of Dorchester. Nutter positioned the car face first towards the glass doors, and then accelerated towards them until the nose of the car bounced lightly off of the glass. It was at this point I noticed they had been chained shut, a length of heavy, brass chain threaded through two holes in the glass.

Orders were shouted at me, and I hastened to follow them as best as my ability allowed, which meant I rolled ass-over-heels out of the car and into the path of several Z's.

I'd spent a day without their company, which isn't to say I was pining for it, because_ fuck zombies__. _It did mean that I was for some reason slightly shocked to come face to face with one at such a sudden and inconvenient time.

I had a job to do – opening the doors to the Argos superstore. So I bypassed the zombies completely, not even giving them with a second glance as I jumped onto the cars bonnet and started to get frisky with the heavy padlock. After a quick fumble I managed to slide the key into place and with a twist and click, the chain clanged to the ground. In one fluid motion I shifted open the glass doors.

The car moved before I had time to remove myself from its bonnet, so I quickly became dethroned by gravity. I fell into cold, hard floor – just inches from the dragging feet of the creeping zombies. I threw myself away from harm, crawling backwards into the store and bringing the fallen chain with me.

What followed was a tense game of timing and precision. I closed the doors as Nutter finished bringing the car into the shop front, re-threading the chain through the cleverly broken holes in the glass and snapping the padlock shut just as the first scabbed palm squelched across the glass, leaving a trail of blood and slime in its wake.

I didn't stop to find out what sort of crowd we'd gathered. I refocused my attention on Nutter, and the task of not letting him catch me with my guard down. Being stuck in a department store with my sworn enemy probably wasn't the best way to make use of my time, but I'm a time waster at heart. Nutter had already occupied himself in the back of the store, past the checkout counter and into the storage-filled depths, where all the goodies were kept.

Argos had a pretty wide selection of camping goods. Sleeping bags, air-beds, stoves, cutlery, tools and tarpaulins among other essentials. Things the camp relied on to keep its members moderately content. A large chunk of the stock had already been removed, so we were left to scurry around digging out anything useful.

I kept one eye on my work, and one eye on Nutter, who was being entirely too helpful. At one point he even offered me a swig of water from his canteen, which I politely declined. I suspected a complex poison that would only activate after touching my saliva. Nothing gets past me.

When our efforts had ended we had a car full of important accessories, all integral to our survival. I also had myself a nice, sharp pair of garden shears which I was itching to try out – and I don't mean on my hedges.

Nutter had strapped himself back into the car and was revving the engine like the boy racer he always aspired to be. My job was to once more unlock and relock the doors without letting any of the Z's into the store, or into my personal space. There was one minor issue that needed to be taken care of first. Our abrupt entry into Argos had sent out a mating call to the nearby creepers, so the glass doors were currently engaged in a tug of war with a dozen of irritated bodies.

Twenty-something half formed plans of heroism and escapeitude ran through my mind, but I was saved from choosing one by Nutter, who handed me an impressive bundle of fire-crackers and duct tape. The perfect-ish distraction. There was already a panel of glass missing above the entrance way, so I lit a couple of the protruding crackers alight and in seconds it was sailing through the opening, over the heads of the Z's and into the streets beyond.

As soon as the front of the car had cleared the store perimeter I shifted myself into position and began the process of re-chaining the doors shut. There were two Z's that posed a danger to me, but I judged myself to have enough time to chain the doors before I had to dispatch them.

I guess I misjudged how hungry they could get, as the first of the bugger's put forth an astonishing amount of speed to get its hands on me. I one-handedly plunged the shears into the tip of its forehead, and it fell away from me, taking the shears with it.

With that problem swiftly taken care of, I fixed the chain into place and padlocked it at its tightest point. I then took a single moment kick out at the nearest Z, knocking it a few paces away from my vital organs. My next task was jumping back into the passenger seat of the car, which was made slightly more difficult when I realised that the car in question was already stealthily driving away from the situation.

I hurried to catch up to the vehicle, weaving between outstretched arms as I did so. Nutter had the decency to keep a slow pace as I came around the side of the car. What he didn't remember to do is unlock the passenger side door.

I knocked on the window. At first it was a polite knock, but it quickly became a desperate thumping as I was forced to dodge out of the arms of another lunging zombie. After a few seconds Nutter graced me with his acknowledgement, and lazily reached over to unlock the door.

With just one arm on the wheel, the car angled itself directly into an oncoming zombie, sending it bouncing off of the front bumper and into my path. I grabbed one of its arms and sent it spinning away, wishing that I hadn't let those lovely garden shears embed themselves into someone's skull. The car swerved once more, and Nutter returned his attention to the road, forgetting to unlock the door. The car accelerated slightly, and I suddenly knew what had happened to Ryan the day before.

I refused to let the same thing happen to me. I instead allowed my legs a slight reprieve and slowed myself down, just enough to let the passenger door fall away from me. My hand instead found the door to the back-seat, which I knew had been unlocked from loading up the car with the camping goods.

The door flung open at my touch and I threw myself onto a heap of pointy plunder, almost skewering myself on the sharp end of a protruding shovel.

Nutter hid his displeasure pretty well, shooting me a phony smile and mumbling something about a jammed lock. The devil on my shoulder whispered me a suggestion, something about strangling him with his seat belt. I pushed the dark thoughts from my mind and kept calm. Returning to Ian and the other's with Nutter's blood on my hands would be as good as signing my own death warrant. I continued to tell myself that it was better for everyone if I just kept my head down, no matter what they threw at me, and got the job done with minimal internal conflicts.

I climbed into the passenger seat and hefted my baseball bat across my shoulder, looking over at Nutter I could see his own bat propped up between his legs. We continued along the streets of Dorchester, scouting for a pharmacy of some kind, anywhere that we could scavenge some much needed medical supplies for Hendryk's first aid tent.

The only likely building looked like it had seen better days. Nutter told me that he'd already emptied the front shelves, and that if there was anything left it would be kept in the back. We shared a look. Delving into the darkness of an unknown building with a man who almost stranded me in the middle of a zombie infested town was not my idea of a well spent afternoon, but before I could make a counter suggestion he was out of the car, bat in hand, and heading towards the doors.

Naturally I followed the morally questionable man into the dark building. That was my first mistake, one of many to come.

There were already bodies scattered across the floor and hanging over broken shelves. I trod carefully over them, unable to shake the image of awakening corpses from my mind.

It was at this point that a body shifted beneath me, and I reluctantly jumped a meter backwards. Nutter's bat struck out before I could even pivot mine, and a snarling head was crushed into the cold floor where it lay.

I thanked Nutter with a nod, unwilling to grant him anything more than that. I didn't bother to mention that his help wasn't necessary, and that I had the situation well under control, probably. I continued to dog his footsteps while vigilantly keeping watch for any other lurking dangers. We passed the checkout desk, and beyond sat a single door which we hoped led to the remaining supplies.

It was locked. But upon closer inspection I found a small catch in the handle which flicked the lock open. Unfortunately this little gizmo didn't work both ways, and if the door closed with both of us on the other side then we would be locked in with whatever was waiting beyond.

Nutter found a plastic Wet Floor sign to prop between the door and its frame. To say I felt a little nervous that my bodily health relied on a slim piece of yellow plastic would be a mild understatement. Yellow has never been my favourite colour. But with that problem solved, we both peered into corridor before us, an unrelenting pool of darkness.

A torch spluttered to life in Nutter's spare hand, and I kicked myself for not thinking of bringing one of my own. My previous day of zombie-free work had seemingly lessened my usually overcautious mind. For now I would have to rely on Nutter to light the way, not something I felt entirely comfortable with, especially considering relying on Nutter for something as contrite as a properly buttered slice of toast would be considered a fruitless venture. At least this meant I wouldn't have to go first. I stepped back to let Nutter move on ahead. He did, but only after a brief hesitation. It was a small thing, but it mollifying to know that Nutter had as little trust for me as I did for him.

We moved slowly, the torch swaying back and forth to illuminate the various obstructions in our way. Mostly empty baskets, unopened boxes and the like - so far no signs of decaying bodies.

A door hung ajar to our left, causing us to make a brief pause. In a tense moment, Nutter used his fingers to dim the light and eased open the door. He peaked, quickly and silently, around its edge and then snapped his head back away from the opening.

He looked back at me and shook his head. No zombies. Just what I liked to hear. Knowing that shred of information we moved on, stalking past two more doors, both of which were very much closed and not worth our immediate attention. I noticed at this point that I was as close to Nutter as I had been since our fist fuelled confrontation. It was a strange thought, that not long ago we would have had happily beaten each other senseless, and now our cooperation could make the difference between our survival and our unwelcome demise.

CLANG.

My thoughts on the matter were wiped away when Nutter's boot introduced itself to an upturned basket of bottled deodorants, sending them rolling in various directions. Nutter jerked himself away, sending spasms of light around the corridor. I noticed quickly that we'd almost reached its end, and it bled away into a much larger storage room, with partially stocked shelves of medicinal goodness.

I urged Nutter onward, and he shrugged me away aggressively as if it was my fault that I'd witnessed his blunder. The noise hadn't done much to scare me away from the task, especially considering the only threat we'd come across was smelling fabulous, according to the closest can of deodorant.

A cleverer man than I would've sensed the danger instantly, and for this reason a rather abrupt chill shot its way down my spine when Nutter threw his arm out in front of me and promptly froze.

As the last can rolled into the storage room and came to a stop it was greeted with a loud, keening groan, which received an answering groan from the opposite direction. My baseball bat, like Nutter's, rose in response to the challenge. Nutter unfiltered the torch, letting the light sweep out. It was a double edged sword. I saw quickly the two threats that the room posed us, one towering and scabbed, the other squat and bulbous. Just as equally they could see us, or at least they saw a floating ball of shininess that was just too damn enticing to pass up.

'I got lanky.' croaked Nutter, taking charge of the situation.

We both moved into the room at a cautious battle-crouch. He moved away to the left to subdue his opponent, taking the light with him.

My own foe was suddenly plunged back into darkness, just as it charged forwards to meet me. I found myself making a natural retreat towards Nutter and his torch's side, leading the zombie along with me to bring it back into the brighter part of the room. As soon as its face appeared out of the shadow I lashed out with the bat, sending it ricocheting off of its jaw.

Not hard enough to put it down for good, but just enough to throw it off track. My second swing was overhead, with enough force to put it swiftly out of its prolonged misery.

I was feeling pretty damn chuffed with myself when another face appeared suddenly out of the gloom, wearing the sickest, toothless smile I could've ever asked for. I barely brought up my bat in time, and was forced to hold it sideways and shove the Z backwards, opening up just enough space to fire off another swing, catching it on the side of the head and sending it spiralling away.

He span for an almost laughable distance, but my smile was ripped away from me when he stumbled into a heavy glass cabinet, filled with just the sort of medical supplies we needed it.

NEEP. NEEP. NEEP. NEEP. NEEP. NEEP. NEEP. NEEP. NEEP. NEEP. NEEP. NEEP.

Did I mention that the glass cabinet was rigged to a burglar alarm system? It was. I didn't know how it operated without electricity, or if the building itself was wired to an emergency power source, and I certainly didn't have time to investigate it.

The sound was similar to a car alarm, and had the same properties when it came to attracting zombies. There was a sudden uproar from the darker corners of the storeroom, and meaty fists began to hammer on doors that held them back from the puzzling noise. I struggled to come up with a suitable action plan under the shock of the moment, especially when every sensible voice in my head was telling me to give up any pretence of finishing the job and get the hell out of there.

I found myself searching for Nutter and seeking some kind of confirmation that we should be showing this place the backs of our legs, but I was greeted only with a freshly killed, lanky corpse. Nutter was nowhere to be found.

I didn't immediately suspect foul play, but I really, really should have. The next thing I saw was the blurry shaft of Nutter's baseball bat as it collided into the side of my head.

From then on I was mostly seeing stars and bright spots float in and out of my vision, and Nutter's heavy boots as he stomped over to the broken glass cabinet and swept an armful of medical goods into his backpack.

I tried to rise in rebellion, but after two knocks to the head in less than three days I had a few issues with the room spinning around me. I instead rolled onto my side and made myself focus my eyes on a fixed point in a vain attempt to unscramble my brains. My fixed point happened to be the glass cabinet that continued to wail obnoxiously, calling out for any of the buildings hungry denizens to come and take a piece out of me. Nutter hurried to finish his looting, looking over his shoulder to double check that he wasn't about to be mauled by anyone, or anything. Finally he zipped up his bag and jogged back towards the corridor without sending as much as an apologetic glance my way.

Somehow my mind, as muddled and assaulted as it felt, made the connection between my hand and the baseball bat that rested close to my side. I clutched it to me, and with as much energy as I could muster I skidded it across the laminated flooring, like an oddly shaped bullet, towards Nutter.

Whatever my feeble plan was, it worked perfectly. The bat slid between his legs and hooked his foot, sending him cannoning into the ground.

This remarkable accomplishment re-energized my will to live, which vastly outweighed the pain in my skull and the need to lie down for a very long time. I shakily got to my feet, ignoring my trembling knee's and the troublesome room around me, which gave an extra lurch as I stood upright.

I made my legs move and almost collapsed with my first step. It was useless, Nutter had already recovered from my previously inspiring baseball bat slide, and I stared a flaming hole in his back as he got to his feet and began to sprint to the door beyond. The door we had propped open so we wouldn't be locked in here for an eternity, the door I had no doubt that Nutter would slam shut behind him.

Except he didn't, because at that precise moment another door swung open to Nutter's right, and a snarling figure tackled him into the stone wall opposite, causing them to slide to floor in a tangle of flailing limbs.

In that sick moment I couldn't help but thank my lucky stars. I threw myself forward, refusing to obey the command from my brain to just fall down and die. I thundered down the corridor, full of panicky enthusiasm to escape. I hopped over Nutter as he managed to roll clear of the attacking zombie, and felt the brush of his fingertips on the bottom of my jeans.

I slowed down as I reached the doorway, a wash of nausea catching up to me along with a mild sensation of triumph. I risked a final look back at the corridor, barely illuminated by the light from the store front. Nutter was scrambling to his feet, inches away from a still moaning corpse. A second zombie was lumbering towards him from the end of the corridor, shaking its head in frustration as the noise from the alarm reached an infuriating pitch. I tore my eyes away from the figure, ignoring the lance of pain that zigzagged its away around the back of my head. I made the final step past the boundary of the corridor, and into the safety of the pharmacy. The Wet Floor sign, to its credit, was still propping open the heavy door as I passed, and in an act of pure instinct I kicked it out of place.

The door slammed shut behind me. And an instant later there was a loud thud as Nutter bounced off of it.

He spent several vital seconds hammering on the door and screaming bloody murder. His voice was drowned out by the incessant alarm, amongst other things, such as the pounding inside my head and the emphasized beating of my rabid heart.

I kept my back solidly against the door, refusing to allow my body a twitch of movement lest I regret my snap decision and flick the catch to unlock it. I'd meet only Nutter's rage, or the hungry arms of his zombified friends.

My eyes had squeezed themselves shut as his screams of fury melted into pleads of mercy and forgiveness. His words poked at me like hot knives, probing whatever was left of my humanity. I ignored them, desensitizing myself from the truth of the situation. The pain kept me anchored, the pain Nutter had caused when he'd betrayed me and left me for dead. I wasn't being cruel, I wasn't taking my revenge, I was just surviving.

I repeated those words until his plea's stopped. And then I just stood, panting and covered in sweat. Knowing that there had been a man on the other side of the door, and now there was only meat.

A bell chimed from somewhere in front of me, and I forced my eyes open. What greeted me could be described as the piss-poor counter melody of an already piss-poor jazz instrumental.

I had a problem. I had a zombie problem. Of course I did, when didn't I? It was just like the Z's to interrupt my darkest moment. When all I wanted to do was slide to my knee's, hang my head and have some alone time, they were funnelling into the pharmacy, just asking to have their heads caved in.

I shrugged myself off of the door and locked eyes with the closest zombie. It was wearing a pinstriped suit, complete with bow-tie. I would usually find the image of a bow-tie on a zombie somewhat amusing. But I felt nothing. Not even the ghost of a giggle, I could barely summon forth a spark of anger. Nothing. Just the pain in my skull and the knowledge that at some point in the very near future I was going to have to find the energy to start sending these cronies back to zombie heaven.

Pinstripes made the mistake of stepping into my personal space. A second later whatever artificial semblance of life that the zombie possessed emptied out into the air, along with a good gallon of blood as I drove a combat knife into the peak of its skull.

The second zombie also fell as the knife found its way into the socket of its eye, digging deep enough to scramble the vital organ beyond. A third was cut down by the knife before the slick of blood covered the handle, ruining its grip. I sheathed it, and brought my bat out to play.

I swung left and right, mowing the creatures down as they came. The carelessness of my swings often meant I would need a second or third blow to finish the job completely. The alarm continued to ring in the background, though I was barely aware of it as I continued my gritty work. I was emotionless. Shut off from the rest of the world.

It was only when I found my breathing reduced to a cold, rasping gasp that I began to come back to life. The ache of my head was accompanied by a new pain in my batting arm, the strain of swinging the heavy length of aluminium.

Finally I scored a direct knock-out blow to the head of a heavy zombie, usually that kind of strike would send the Z spinning, its life officially cancelled. But the bat merely bounced off of its thick skull.

I stood and stared and knew that my strength had failed me. It was like standing in the furious current of a white water river, it's strength was unfaltering, whilst my strength was limited, mortal and completely spent.

Instead of drowning beneath a sea of zombies, I let my slow rising panic guide me away from the storm, I ducked beneath the Z's lunge, letting it meet the locked door behind me. I vaulted over a nearby counter and shuffled towards the front of the pharmacy, keeping the empty shelves between me and the Z's.

I would've liked to use the front door, like a civilized person, but it was crammed thick with bodies, all of them wishing for a bit of the action. I didn't have a lot of options, so I chose the most painful one. I backed up, a good twenty feet away from the giant glass window that made up the majority of the store front. Then I began to run.

The plan was simple. I would throw myself through a solid glass window.

I didn't stop to consider the risks, or the potential flaws. I executed the plan without a second thought, and as I jumped and became airborne, I truly believed that nothing would go wrong.

I bounced pathetically off of the window, barely even insulting it, let alone breaking it. I landed pretty hard, jolting my already weary arm. I didn't care about the pain, but I was suddenly outraged at my failure, and I harnessed the sudden anger, directing it at the window.

The bat had more effect than my body did. I spent my rage well, and the swing I took at the window was stronger than any I'd thrown at the Z's previously.

Still, the glass didn't break. Instead, a multitude of long cracks spread out from the point of impact. It was a start, at least. I swung once more before my energy abandoned me. Opening a small hole in the glass and spreading the web of cracks further.

I reverted to Plan C. Which was actually just Plan A, but with a far less reinforced pane of glass. I backed up as far as I could get without bumping uglies with the several zombies who had bypassed the shelving unit. Then, feeling far less reassured than I had before, I sent myself once more into the glass.

This time I burst clean through, sending broken shards cannoning in all directions. I landed on my hands and knee's, my fingers being slightly crushed underneath the bat I still held.

I took one look at the car I'd shared with Nutter. The car filled with enough camping supplies to earn myself a decent amount of favour back at camp. I thought then of Nutter, and what might be left of him beyond the locked door, all because of one act of cold blood. All the favour in the world couldn't protect me now, Ian's rage would take on an entirely new level when he realised what I'd done.

Knowing this didn't comfort me when I discovered that the car was now inaccessible. A dozen curious zombies mingled around it, too many for me to handle on a good day, let alone after a kamikaze window dive.

I turned and ran, almost soiling myself at the sheer sight of so many converging Z's. The alarm continued to ring out, bringing forth more and more of the things. I decided it was best for me to leave.

I jogged in the direction I assumed would lead me out of the city the fastest. I would've sprinted, but my body felt thoroughly broken, and anything more than a mild run threatened to send me into cardiac arrest.

It wasn't long before I stumbled into a familiar part of town and began to spot hints of previously fought battles. Mainly a few recently deceased zombies and a crashed car. I followed the street along, and quickly rediscovered 'The Frog and Nightgown Inn', the shabby pub that Ian had claimed as his own personal hangout.

The cars were already gone, which meant Ian and the others were either gathering supplies of their own or had already returned to camp. I had mixed feelings about this, because as much as I didn't want to face Ian right now, I also didn't think my legs had much life left in them.

Without much hope, I checked a few of the abandoned cars close by. None of them were unlocked, which meant I had a lengthy walk home. I took another look at the Frog and Nightgown, and for a moment I seriously considered staying there for the rest of the day and perhaps the night, I could always make the walk back to camp in the morning.

But there's a name for people who avoid responsibility, and it isn't Luigi. Also I should mention the disturbing image of waking up to a snapping set of zombie jaw's was slightly off putting.

I shouldered my bat, took a deep breath and began the long walk home.

Ten minutes later I was slumped against a tree, occasionally doubling over to spew up whatever liquefied sludge was left in my innards. The bat shaped bruise that had swollen up around the side of my head was plaguing me with intermittent bouts of nausea and vertigo.

At several points during the retreat from Dorchester I gave into the dizziness and fell to my hands and knee's, all thoughts of safety swept from my mind. I found myself crawling out of the city and into the grassy fields that lay on its borders.

I willed myself to ignore the stammers of pain that racked my skull, and the violent shaking of my various organs. Using my baseball bat as support, I pushed myself to my feet, my head flopping back and forth with the weight of my headache. I let it flop into the general direction of the heavy woodland, where the camp was located. It lay beyond a daunting hill, after which was the abandoned refugee camp and then a couple of miles of forest. Finally, if I was still alive, I'd find the camp.

It was around this time I discovered the tree, and the tree found out what my insides looked like. I actually felt a little better after being sick, possibly because the stench was enough to overpower the weariness of my tormented body. Once I'd removed myself from the area, the aches and pains found me again and I was forced to sit down.

I sat for at least an hour, rocking back and forth and radiating discomfort. A passer-by could've easily mistaken me for an enigmatic zombie. Perhaps it was a good thing that the world severely lacked passer-by's these days.

As the pains magnitude receded, I brought out my old friend. My mechanised, high-tech diary. It was the only use I had for my phone, considering I wouldn't be making any calls any time soon. I'd completely wiped its memory when the satellites and electricity had first been shut down, just to make room for the lengthy entries I'd be typing. I sort of regretted losing the memory, because it truly was memories. Just looking back on those random photo's and video's would've been a heart-wrenching, and terrifying. Like seeing the ghost of a dead world.

Maybe it was a good thing I had nothing to look back on. I'd left those better memories behind, with the better days.


	24. 22092011 Part 2

****User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 2209/2011  
>Subject: Ain't No Grave<strong>**

I sat. And I hurt. There wasn't much else to do. I'd been lucky to make it out of Dorchester unscathed. Well that's not true, because I felt fairly scathed, I guess a baseball bat to the skull can bring about those feelings. What I mean is, the screech of the alarm had not only almost gotten me killed, but it had also served as a handy distraction when I was on all fours, coughing up blood and making my escape out of the town.

The loud and mysterious noise had offered the zombies a break from their usual day-to-day affairs, such as chasing after small animals and picking the last of the flesh off of a month old corpse, and for the most part they seemed more interested in following the sound than they did following my quickly retreating backside. Perhaps it also helped that my brief melee with the undead had soiled my clothing in their rancid residue. It wasn't my favourite perfume, but it had its uses.

I'm struggling. I really am. Before, it was easy to find a cosy spot on the ground, power up my phone and whip my fingers over the touch screen for minutes and hours, letting my heart and mind focus on nothing else but reliving my efforts to stay alive, and giving the struggle for survival some kind of meaning, as feeble as it may be. In the past it had been easy to record the slow grind of my life amidst a dead and forgotten land, and I wasn't ashamed to let the mistakes I've made and the emotions I've felt become a history. But now I'm not so certain. In a hundred years from now, when this place is occupied by the living, or perhaps discovered by an alien nation, do I really want them to know that Luigi, the light-hearted yarn spinner that narrated the darkest of his days, had been so scared that he couldn't move? Or had been so sickened with himself that he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and let it be over? Because he did those things. I did those things.

I've given up. This place isn't for me. This place is for the people I'm surrounded by, the cold ones and the criminals. I don't want to tell these kind of stories any more. Not the kind that are filled with injustices and oppression.

I'm not even going to sugar-coat it any more. These people are vicious and without morals. They had killed, and raped, and ruined lives. And they had been given a second chance by a man so frightened by the world outside, that he surrounded himself with brutes so that he wouldn't have to witness it for himself, and then he had satisfied their animal needs so that they wouldn't turn on him.

Even the small rays of light, like Hendryk and Ryan, had given in to the regime. I offered Ryan the chance to be free of it all, but he couldn't bring himself to return to the chaotic, monster filled world with me. Hendryk was tolerated by the others only because of his small skill in medicine, and sometimes that wasn't enough to keep him safe from Ian's drunken outbursts, and the animosity of the other campers. He and Ryan would stay here, with or without me, and accept their pitiful role in the new society, because to them it was the only safe place left.

I couldn't help them if they weren't willing to help themselves. And knowing that, there is nothing left for me here. Back on the broken road, with the rotting creatures, I hope I can find myself again. And that my journal can be filled with the mundane joys of eating noodles, and watching Thomas flinch away from Mo every time he swung his nunchuck.

I prepare now to find this road. If I had belongings, I would pack them, but they were taken from me, like the virtue and the lives had been taken from the two girls who had been held captive in this camp of horrors, and had killed themselves, just hours before I had arrived.

But until I can restore this chronicle to its usual, cheerful roots, I'm forced to tell the whole dark truth. Because a story with gaps is like a cup of tea without sugar. Not one that should be consumed.

My head hurt. My vision swam. My batting arm burned from overuse. And my soul was asking me, desperately, if I had truly just killed a man.

I guess I had. I won't think about it more than I have to, because at this moment I need to keep my head in the right place. But it is something that happened, and I wish it didn't, but I can't honestly say that I regret it either.

My hands held my phone, and I had just typed a hopeless rendition of the events at the pharmacy, filled with stutters and typo's. I told myself that I'd go back and fix the grammatical errors later. And then suddenly laughed out loud, amused that I could be worried about the state of my writing when I was propped up against a tree on the outskirts of a zombie infested town, barely able to stand.

I honestly think that if a zombie had stumbled upon me as I sat there, that I couldn't have mustered forth the energy to defend myself. I guess I was lucky, because I didn't see nor smell a single zombie as I sat, riddled with pain.

Hours passed, and at some point my phone vibrated several times to warn me that I had just dipped under 20% battery life. So I powered it down, and continued to quietly croon to myself.

An intimidating gathering of clouds had tinted the sky a dark grey, and I was suddenly aware that I could get rained on, which would seriously put a damper on things. Being cold, physically and mentally exhausted, in severe pain _and _wet wasn't something I was looking forward to in the slightest, and for the first time since I had propped myself against the tree, I found myself wanting to get up, and move on.

I was saved the effort. A twin pair of white, ghostly lights pierced the greying horizon, growing in size as they approached. At first I tried to blink them away, assuming them to be hallucinations, but they were accompanied by the welcome rumble of a car engine.

I could just make out a mop of ash coloured hair through the car window. The door opened, and Shawn rushed towards me with a face full of muted concern. He dragged with him the brutish, makeshift pole-axe that he had crafted himself.

In fear of my head being a few seconds away from becoming severely less head shaped, I held up both of my hands and spouted out a few words in human-speak, to let Shawn know for sure that I was still me.

He ignored me, batting my hands out of the way and falling to his knee's by my side. He took my head in his hands and looked into my eyes. His own were the colour of the sky on a pleasant day, which seemed suitable, as he had a soaring harpy depicted on the side of his face. Next, he checked my visible limbs for bites, handling my bruised head with care. At last he sat back, smiling and relieved. I couldn't help but think that he sincerely cared about my health, and I smiled.

'Where's Percy?'

What? Who? I asked Shawn to repeat himself, because I honestly didn't know what the hell he was talking about. He rolled his eyes, and asked again.

'Nutter. Where is he?'

Wait. No. No freaking way was Nutter's real name 'Percy'. I don't know why, but upon learning that, it suddenly made everything so much worse.

I shook my head at Shawn. He understood. Even after the things he had said to me back at the camp about Ian or one of his friends having an 'accident', he looked pretty grave. After a while he stood up, and with a combined effort I was transported into the car, one that Shawn had gotten permission directly from Jarvis to borrow. He explained that Ian and the others had made their own way back to camp when something had set off an extremely loud alarm. They expected Nutter to bring the other car back with him, but after an hour or two, the campers had began to doubt that we had made it out of Dorchester. Ian had been particularly upset over the presumed death of Nutter, and Shawn informed me that during his farewell speech, they had toasted the fact that Nutter had taken me out with him.

I made Shawn stop the car. We had been driving back to the camp, with Shawn explaining the situation and myself resting my head against the cool, glass window. Nutter's death had been accepted, but only because they thought I was dead too. How would they react when I walked back into camp with nothing but a bump on the head?

Shawn told me to lie, but I wasn't sure if I could lie to that many people about what I'd done, especially if they were all holding sharp objects and wanted me dead. No, it couldn't be done. I told Shawn as much, and he agreed that it wouldn't be easy. The campers themselves were no strangers to loss, they had started out as a large group after breaking out of Dorchester prison, but they had been reduced to barely two dozen during their escape into the wooded hills. They had become used to losing members to the lurking Z's, to them it was an unfortunate inevitability. But losing a member to a stranger, like me, was something else. Something that they wouldn't just forgive and forget. So there was no fucking way I was going back to that camp.

Shawn slapped me across the face. Not particularly hard, but enough to shake me from the stammering, cowering mess I'd so quickly become. He leaned in close, close enough that the smell of cigarettes and alcohol was almost overpowering. Then, he began to tell me things, the sort of things that I'd guessed at, but would have preferred not to have known.

He told me about a kid called Percy. He wasn't a particularly bad kid, but he was misguided, and his mistakes earned him a place in prison. He wanted nothing more than to do his time and get back out into the world, back to his family. But things don't always go as planned. Like the other young and manipulable inmates, Percy fell in with Ian, infamous for his status within the prison, and notable for spending the majority of his adult life behind bars.

The partnership carried over during the chaotic messiness that I had christened The Fucking Of The World. It was that abyssal period between not knowing what the fuck was happening, and watching your friends and family being eaten alive in the street. It was a pretty dark time, and by then Percy had forgotten his goals of returning to the outside world as a new man. Instead, he had found a new family inside the prison. A family that, like him, couldn't live a life governed by rules and logic.

Percy would do anything to impress his new family, or I should say, to impress Ian. His exploits with the undead earned him a nickname, one that he embraced and lived by.

Shawn took a breath. His words were sinking in deep. If he thought that he could make me feel better by humanizing Nutter, then he was exorbitantly wrong. And I don't even know what exorbitantly means.

Jarvis was the de-facto leader of the group, partly because of the uneasy truce he had forged before releasing the inmates, but mostly due to the fact that he slept with a shotgun. If it wasn't for that fact, then there would be no denying that Ian was the controller of the camp. Jarvis had the plans, but Ian was the muscle behind them, and he ruled over the others with terror.

Not even Jarvis, with all his sweet words and reasoning, could completely stop Ian from having what he wanted. He lived off of a constant supply of booze and smokes, and even when he left the camp to scavenge for supplies, he let other people do the job for him while he kicked back his feet and drank himself into a stupor.

It became quite clear how much power Ian had when several weeks ago the camp had taken in three female refugees. Shawn began to stumble over his words at that point, but his meaning was obvious. Ian had taken them too. Again, and again, and again. And he wasn't the only one. Where Ian goes, his cronies are expected to follow.

My hand hovered over the car door handle. I was still considering pushing it open and flinging my beaten body back into the world. I'm sure Shawn had a point for feeding me the grittier details of Ian's escapades, but at that point I was tired of it all. The sort of tired that you could feel in your bones, that you could hear in your blood as it pulsed through your insides.

So I hesitated, and Shawn took that opportunity to peel back his grimy coat and draw a thin knife from his belt. I scrambled as far away from him as I could, which wasn't very much, but I needn't have. He placed the knife on the dashboard of the car, and sat back in his seat, not taking his eyes from the blade.

'I did what I had to do.'

It was an eerie statement. And my mind siphoned through several explanations, until I remembered my first few minutes at the camp. I wasn't as savvy with names back then. I recalled an enraged monster of a man beating on a greying victim, who had accidentally misplaced his knife. It had been found by the two unlucky girls, the ones Jarvis hadn't been able to protect.

Except it wasn't an accident. Shawn hadn't misplaced his knife, in fact he had placed it exactly where it could be found by the girls.

I wanted to accuse him, but I couldn't bring myself to. He looked tortured enough. In a way, I thought, he had done the right thing, but on the other hand, they were dead, and he was responsible for that.

He saw the unspoken words in my stare. With a quiet mumble, he told me that he had given them a choice. He wasn't strong enough to give them more than that. He wouldn't take them away, because he was scared of the new, infested world. The only thing waiting for them outside of the camps walls was a grizzly, bloody end. An end he couldn't protect them from, just like he couldn't protect them from Ian and the other predators.

I nodded. Not because I agreed, but because I understood.

And then we were silent, for a long while. As I pondered his words, I found myself once more drawn to his faded tattoos. There was something I was curious about, so I asked him how he had wound up behind bars. Never before had public urination been so not funny.

Shawn returned the knife to his belt, his wrinkled, liver-spotted hands shaking as he did so. At first I'd doubted Shawn's lack of confidence in himself to survive on the road, but on closer inspection I forced myself to understand that not everybody was a strapping, young man like myself. Shawn had to be creeping up on his fifties. Perhaps the pole-axe he carried with him at all times had something to do with masking his physical limitations. I couldn't help but wonder how long Shawn could swing that thing before his arms gave up on him, like mine had today, and how many miles could he run, before his legs and lungs called it quits.

Without realising, my hand had moved away from the door. At some point during Shawn's revelation, I had decided not to run. It was perhaps the single stupidest decision I'd made in several weeks, which is quite astounding if you consider the mishaps I'd made. My brain was one of the few things I could still rely on, and it was subconsciously telling me to stay, so I did. That didn't make the idea of returning to the camp any easier, especially without even the thought of a plan to avoid being seriously maimed.

My concern was shared by Shawn, who told me that if Ian decided that I'd had a hand in Nutter's death, which was extremely likely, then there was no telling what kind of limits he would go to in order to extract his gritty revenge. And it wouldn't necessarily be extracted on myself, either. There was one more thing that Ian desired, and could demand as payment for my betrayal of the camp. Carolyn.

There were too many factors. Too many dangers. Neither I, nor Shawn, had much of a head for strategy. Shawn's earlier confession seemed to have invigorated him, and for the first time he wanted to openly oppose Ian and his group. His plans were too blunt, and would involve blood shed – something I was keen to avoid. My idea's all seemed to involve delicate preparation, which would take precious time, something we didn't have. All of my past ambitions of escaping the camp with my health, my friends, and Carolyn seemed suddenly childish. Things just weren't that easy.

The skies darkened above us as the discussion came to an end. There was only one thing we had agreed on, that if there was something we _could_ do, then it was something we _should_ do. Those were the sort of words that inspired wars, and I had a feeling that a battle would be fought before this ordeal was all over.

We travelled in an uncomfortable silence. I repeated the steps over in my head, the fickle plot that we had contrived together, back when our heads had been full of snakes and our hearts of venom. The first thing I would do is confront Jarvis. I wouldn't give anything else my attention, not Ian, not Ryan, not anybody. I would march into Jarvis' tent and demand he choose a side.

It didn't quite happen that way.

By the time the camp came into view the speech I had planned to give Jarvis had dissolved into a hazy jumble of disconnected sentences. I madly tried to salvage them, but the car had stopped and the engine was off. It was show time.

A silence curtained the camp, and every small sound I made was amplified a hundred fold. The frosty crunch of grass beneath my feet had effectively announced my presence, and had called attention to the fact that I was most definitely not dead, much to the campers shock and anger.

Ian rose first, regarding me with fierce eyes and a dark, intimidating scowl. I looked past him, locking my eyes with the biggest tent of the camps grounds, Jarvis' home and command centre. I stalked towards it, past the seething inmates, past the sizzling camp fire, and past a bewildered looking Hendryk, who stared at me through red rimmed eyes as if he had seen a ghost.

My walk had been going so well. I made it within ten meters of the tent before an Ian shaped shadow crossed my path.

He stood firmly in front of me, arms folded, his face just several inches above mine, and looking strangely lifeless. I couldn't quite meet his eye, so I instead watched his trembling Adam's apple, and tensed my entire body, preparing it for the worst.

He asked me, in a voice devoid of emotion, where Nutter was. Without meeting his eyes I told him, in a voice filled with icy certainty, that he was dead.

He nodded, and no more words were spoken. After a heartbeat of quiet, I moved past him, leaving him where he stood.

I had taken only two steps when a meaty hand wrapped itself around my throat, clenching tight and swiftly eliminating my ability to breathe.

With one hand he dragged me backwards. I desperately scratched at his thick knuckles, using my fingernails as claws. My eyes bulged and itched and my head filled with blood, sending it roaring past my eardrums.

My legs dragged along the ground, kicking up puffs of dirt as I struggled against the stronger man. Each of my senses had been overwhelmed in the suddenness of the attack, and I found my heart racing, hopelessly attempting to pump out enough raw adrenaline to lend me the strength to fight back. I couldn't. Through watery eyes I saw Hendryk rush towards me, but he was intercepted in mid-run by another man, no doubt one of Ian's devout followers, heavily built and heavily bearded. They fell to the ground, and more figures rushed forward to restrain my only defender.

Suddenly I dropped, and the pressure around my throat lessened to the point that I could suck in a single, futile breath. Ian shoved my body downwards into the scratchy floor, and then threw himself on top of me, forcing the breath back out of me. He pushed his face close to mine, and smoke swirled between us, filling my nostrils and stinging my eyes.

At first I had no idea where the smoke was coming from, but then I smelt the distinctive stench of burning hair. Seconds later I began to feel it.

Flames licked the back of my head, burning a hole into the thick mop of hair that I'd cultivated over the last month. The hair, being understandably flammable, burned away quickly, and soon after the pain arrived. First a tickle, and then a blinding sear that tore through my skull.

Without breath, I still somehow managed to scream. Smoke and pain. That's about all my brain allows me to remember, that and a wiry arm that snaked around Ian's neck. I think it could have been Shawn's. It wasn't there for long.

BANG.

The force that held me down subsided. I scrambled away from the flames, and made the mistake of patting the back of my head. My finger scraped against the raw wound, and if I hadn't been choking on smoke then I would have cried out in pain.

The action had faded, and for some time I was allowed to dwell in my own little world, where my skull and eyes and throat burned, where tears fell unchecked down my face and where, I soon realised, Shawn stood over my kneeling form, a pole-axe in his hands, with blood leaking from his mouth.

My ears rang, and I remembered the noise that had brought the fight to a sudden end. I thought that it sounded rather like a gun shot. I was correct.

Jarvis stood in the opening of his tent, garbed in a blue dressing gown and holding his signature shotgun above his head, the smoking muzzle pointed into the dusky sky above.

He directed the gun at me, something that felt all too familiar, as I scrubbed my eyes, desperate to remove the sting. In all honesty, I would have welcomed the flash ending of a barrage of bullets. The sort of pain that, unlike a severely cremated head, doesn't linger.

'You. Inside.'

I went inside. My thought process was that insides are usually safe, and outsides are often unsafe. After all, I had spent most of my life inside. It was only after venturing outside that things had began trying to kill me.

Shawn escorted me to the tent so that nobody could grab me from behind and throw me on the pyre. Hendryk did one better and came inside with me. Somehow he had procured his first aid kit, and was already unzipping it as I sat down at Jarvis' desk.

Through the thin material of the tent, I could just make out Jarvis barking orders at his men. Something about the noise of the gunshot reeling in any Z's in the neighbourhood.

I screamed. Hendryk had parked a cold compress onto the back of my head. I was no longer interested in the happenings outside. A stomach full of nausea had to be swallowed down, and I could already feel a blister forming beneath the bandages that Hendryk threaded over my chin and around my head.

Some time later Jarvis took his place at the desk opposite me and dismissed Hendryk. By now the back of my head was numb, and the taste of smoke almost gone from my mouth. Jarvis methodically reloaded his shotgun and carefully lay it across his lap. He spoke to me like I was a child, perhaps to put me in my place, or perhaps because of the vast age difference.

That was only the second time Jarvis had fired the gun. The first had been at the prison, where he had stayed during the first days of the apocalypse. At first the convicts he had released from their cells had been unaccommodating to Jarvis' leadership. One of them in particular had taken a disliking to Jarvis, after all, he was a prison warden. The prisoner had charged him with a length of pipe, and Jarvis had gunned him down in front of the other inmates. Since that event, the majority of the campers hadn't questioned Jarvis' leadership again.

I told him it was a touching story. He told me that when I had been dragged into his new settlement that I had brought with me a genuine shit-storm. Before my arrival, things had been remarkably humdrum, almost tedious. The matter of the three young women that had been given refuge was the first time that his command had faltered. Ian's loyalty came with a price, and Jarvis had paid that price.

I couldn't look at him. I looked instead at his clenched fists, his white knuckles, and then at the curtained arch that separated the room from Carolyn's.

Jarvis glanced behind him, and continued. He could save one of them, he said, or he could die trying to protect them all, and then they would all be victims to the camps desires.

I'd had enough of his shitty explanations, and his shitty sense of righteousness. I'd had enough of this shitty camp, and the shitty people inside it. I'd had enough of knowing that I could fix it all, if it wasn't for this coward and his shotgun, or the steroid filled Neanderthal outside that was shitting all over my good intentions.

I stood up, feeling awkward in my defeated body, and trudged towards the hanging curtain. Behind it was Carolyn. And I was taking her to Starcross.

'I'm taking her to Starcross.'

Yeah. I literally said that. I don't remember a lot of things that people say, or that even I say during the sinister days that I lived. But I remember the things that mean something, and I meant it.

Before I could throw back the curtain I felt a pang of danger, and for the second time in a matter of minutes, there was a gun pointed at me.

Jarvis stared at me down the barrel of his gun. I hesitated. Jarvis had admitted that he had shot down the first person that had disputed him. Would he do so again? I hoped he wouldn't, but I was facing an ageing man that had been repeatedly pushed to his limits, and had made decisions that still gnawed at him. I was a gnat, buzzing around his face and disrupting the only thing he had left.

Still, I found myself reaching back for the curtain, ready to rip it down.

I was saved the effort.

The curtain was pushed to the side, and a figure shoved past me, placing itself directly in the path of the gun.

'I want to go.'

I liked her voice. It was different to how I'd imagined it. It was solid, sure and almost fierce. I wanted her to be my friend, but I didn't say so, it wasn't the time for that sort of thing.

Jarvis dropped the gun on the desk and lurched forward. He came scarily close to Carolyn, and she flinched away from his touch. He caught himself in mid movement, and let his hands fall to his sides.

He told her that it was too dangerous. That there was nothing there, that there was nothing anywhere, that the camp was only safe place left. He told her these things, as he had told them to himself every day and every night.

I disagreed. I pointed to the ridiculous bandages that had been wrapped over my head, the ones that everybody had been polite enough not to comment on, and then I pointed to the lump that had formed on my head, where Nutter had sent a baseball bat in my direction.

Jarvis' eyes lit up. He pointed a shaky finger at me, eyes wide, almost excited. And he said things.

'You … You think your better than the people out there? You killed him, didn't you? You did. You killed him in cold blood. And you parade around here, all high and ruddy mighty. And you want _her_ to go with _you_?'

He turned to Carolyn. His finger still hung in the air, still pointing at me.

'He's a killer.'

I didn't have much of an argument. At least not one that would paint me in a brighter colour. The damage was done. Jarvis had proved to Carolyn that I was just as dangerous as the men outside.

She turned and looked at me, perhaps for the first time. Our eyes met, and she frowned. I must have looked pretty ridiculous, but it was a moment of pure seriousness. She asked me if I had killed him. And I told her I had.

She nodded.

'Good.'

She turned back to Jarvis. I felt better, in that moment, than I had all day. As if her approval had cleansed the part of me that had been damaged. Not completely, but a little bit.

'With him. With you. Or on my own. I'm leaving.'

She was glorious. I'd hoped, several days ago, that her strength would lend me strength. And it most certainly did. For the first time since I'd stumbled upon this little anti-sanctuary, things had began to make sense. It was just a shame that it had taken so long. She hadn't needed rescuing at all. In fact, I needed her more than she needed me.

Jarvis wore the anguish plainly on his face. In all his uncharacteristic hopelessness I had to fight back the urge to feel sorry for him. He returned to the desk, moving his weapon out of the way to reveal the map beneath. It wasn't my map, with the intricate, military details and unfamiliar scribblings. This was a larger map, probably sold in most travel stores.

A thin line had been pencilled in to link the closest town to us – Dorchester - which lay near the centre of the southern coast of England, to Exmouth - some seventy miles to the west. I had been damn close in my blind dash into the southern territories, if only I hadn't scoffed at the idea of studying British geography, I could be in Starcross right now, with a towel around my shoulders and a cup of tea in my hands.

Exmouth, and the adjoining village of Starcross, had been circled in red pen. Jarvis muttered that a copy of this map had gone with Larry, the man who had undertaken the inspection of Starcross. He had left in the morning, and was expected back at some point tomorrow. He would have an explanation of who or what resided at Starcross, and the knowledge of how dangerous the journey would be.

Jarvis collapsed into his chair, and regarded me with heavy, tired eyes. I think he knew there wasn't anything he could do, short of spraying us with bullets, to stop us from leaving. He chose to do the next best thing.

He pleaded with us to stay, just for one more night, to hear the news that Larry brought with him upon his return and to know that where we were going was just as safe as we wished it was. I rejected the offer, the faces of Mo and Thomas – my former zombie slaying colleagues – danced enticingly around my mind. I told Jarvis that my friends were waiting for me in Starcross, and there was nothing left keeping me here.

But... What if Larry had found them, and was bringing them back here? Shit. It was a solid counter-argument from Jarvis, and I was stumped. Carolyn looked like she didn't care either way, and just wanted to take the first bus out of this dump.

Could it have happened? Would Mo and Thomas trust Larry enough to return with him? Of course they would. They didn't have any reason not to trust him. They hadn't seen the atrocities that these people were willing to commit.

Suddenly I wasn't so sure that I wanted to leave. I still had no desire to step outside the safety of the tent, and back into the clutches of Ian and his comrades. Yet I was suddenly mighty curious about what kind of news, and company, that Larry would bring back with him.

Carolyn didn't share my sentiments, and I didn't expect her to. I actually felt a little selfish that I'd forgotten about her well being to ponder over a reunion with my ex-roomies. I had a feeling that Tom and Mo would've wanted me to get myself and Carolyn to safety as soon as possible, well Tom would at least. I had a horrible feeling that Mo had forgotten all about me, and was probably sitting atop a mound of zombie bodies while eating an extra large bag of Skittles.

My sights had fallen to Jarvis' desk, where his shotgun lay to one side. I wanted to escape, but I also needed to know where my friends were, and how healthy their heartbeats were. In the end we came to a compromise, by the end of which Jarvis was visibly less troubled, and had regained some of his signature composure.

Carolyn would return to her quarters for one more night, and I would take up residency inside another room of the large tent. It was a room that Jarvis used mainly as storage. I would have to snuggle up between his personal library and a stack of newspapers that documented the first days of the infection. Jarvis would sleep, as always, with his shotgun under his pillow, just in case there's any unforeseen tomfoolery. Ryan would also be kipping with us, taking up lodging in the lobby, so he can sound the alarm if needed. With four people underneath one roof, it was almost as if I had the conventionally imperfect family that I'd missed out on as a child.

I'd suggested bringing Shawn and Hendryk into the fold to increase our manpower, but Jarvis refused. It was already a risk to show me so much favour – although he later told Ian that he was keeping me close so that he could keep an eye on me – and adding two of the camps original members to his inner circle could be seen as an act of all-out war by the oppressors. Plus, it would be nice to have a couple of pairs of eyes and ears on the outside.

I'm still not quite sure how we are going to sneak away tomorrow, or who will be accompanying us. I know Carolyn doesn't care, but I don't think I could leave Ryan behind with these monsters. Hendryk and Shawn had also put themselves in danger by allying with me, and I'd be doing them a disservice if I high tailed it out of here with them. Even with Shawn's doubts about his capabilities on the outside, I still consented that 'safety in numbers' is our safest bet. Only as long as you know that your numbers aren't made up of fiendish cut-throats.

I still need to thank Shawn and Hendryk for their help earlier, even if it means venturing out of the tents safety. Without their help, and without the timely interference from Jarvis, I could be a whole lot less alive right now.

Gratitude doesn't quite cover it. Perhaps its one of those wordless feelings that you come by once in a life time.

I'm tempted to pilfer Jarvis' library. There are some serious classics in there. Reading is something I hadn't been able to indulge in recently, I had certainly been a busy bee. I doubt that I'm going to be able to sleep tonight anyway, so I may as well finally knuckle down and read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Yeah. That sounds nice.


	25. 22092011 Part 3

****User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 2209/2011  
>Subject: Shelter From Storm<strong>**

Hey, remember that time I said I probably wouldn't be able to sleep tonight? Yeah. That happened. On the plus side, I found out that there's a _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ sequel, which gives me all the more reason to live.

I'd been feeling pretty down recently, what with my head being set on fire and all, but reading about how Charlie had only been given a single chocolate bar each year had left me feeling _really_ depressed. So I did sit-ups for five minutes to pass the time, then sat in a painful, sweaty heap for the next ten minutes. Then I bit the bullet and changed my bandage.

It was nasty. There were a heap of mirror amongst Jarvis' junk, so I made the mistake of checking out the damage across the back of my head. It looked like an alien had tried mating with my brain. A mottled, pus-lathered scab had formed on the back of my skull, multiplying my chances of having nightmares by several thousand. It was so disturbing that it was almost a shame to cover it up again, but Hendryk had told me to keep a cold, damp compress over the wound so it wouldn't dry out. According to him and his questionable medical expertise it would help with the healing process.

I poured the contents of a bottle of water over a thin cloth, slapped it onto the scab, squealed a little, and then wrapped a layer of gauze around my head and across my chin to create _Luigi De Fritos – Mummified edition_.

There were other things preventing me from reaching the land of nod, one of them was an acute sense of impending doom. This tent wasn't quite the fortress I had hoped it would be, and the flimsy material that shielded me from the outside wouldn't withstand the wrath of an angered convict with a sharp object, which there were plenty of. So far none of them had taken the initiative to cut a hole in the tent and try to take me out, of which I was thankful for.

Ian managed to make it as far as the lobby under the pretence that he just wanted to talk to Jarvis. They spoke for a few minutes. I was little fearful that Ian wouldn't leave without my head in a sack, but Jarvis didn't sell me out, although I could tell he was close to folding under the pressure, shotgun or not. Ian's anger didn't relent, and he only left the tent after swearing that things were going to change around here.

It was true, they were, because I'm getting the hell out of here tomorrow, just as soon as Larry returns with my Citroen and the news that my best buddies are tucked away safely at Starcross.

There was an untouched deck of cards laying atop a cask of red wine. I didn't have much of a taste for wine, but what I did have was time to kill, and an urge for companionship.

I found Ryan wide awake, sitting at Jarvis' desk with his head hanging over the few maps that remained. He looked up as I approached, blinking away the fatigue. I pulled up a chair and sat myself at his side. He tapped a particular spot on the map and made a face that seemed to be half smile and half grimace.

'Home.'

It was easy to forget that Ryan hadn't come to live at the camp the same way as the others – not that he looked like a prisoner, but because he had been here since my arrival. While not particularly accepted, he was still known by everybody as Jarvis' personal helper.

Ryan's fingernail caught on the paper, and he scratched out the name of his home town.

'Gone.'

I'm not great at dealing with depressed teenagers, but I tried my best to comfort him. I told him, feeble as it may have sounded, that perhaps one day, when all the ugliness was over, he could go back home.

He looked at me like I was an idiot, and I quickly felt unprepared for whatever angst had built up inside of him. The kid had lost his entire family, which sounds like something that may seriously fuck with your head. I wouldn't know, since I'd had no family to lose, nor had I ever. I did know, however, what it felt like to literally lose my friends, and it wasn't nice.

The fact was, Ryan wouldn't ever return to his home, because it no longer existed. Ryan and his family hadn't wanted to flee the house they had lived in his entire life, but they had been forced to abandon it when the bombs began falling from the sky.

This was all news to me. Apparently I had been seriously left out of the loop when it came to recent history.

Before disintegrating into an even more useless bundle of morons, the Government had issued one final order. Air-strikes had been carried out on the cities where the infection reports had been highest, in a brutal attempt to lessen the threat of the zombie nation. Oh man, I wonder if they had known that the innocents that perished during the blitz would reanimate, no matter how battered their bodies may be, as long as their brain-stems still connected the more vital organs.

Ryan's depression was pretty contagious, and I tucked the playing cards into my pocket. A tedious game of solitaire would've likely put us on the road to insanity.

We were saved from spiralling into despair, because someone was talking. Not to us, but to either themselves or a mysteriously absent accomplice.

I let my mind wander down memory lane, and recalled a certain instance of confusion when I discovered Louis, a lurking shadow of a man, deep in conversation with himself. Or perhaps not himself. At the time I'd brushed it off as some kind of psychological deficiency that I didn't want to get involved with, but Louis _had_ been curiously close to the tent, and if I remembered correctly, he was crouched just behind Carolyn's room.

So Louis and Carolyn were meeting in secret, without technically meeting at all. It was clever, and confusing, and I was so tempted to eavesdrop on their conversation, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

Ryan didn't have such limitations, so I made him do it. The whispers they conversed in didn't carry very far, so he could only make out the odd word or two. 'Starcross' came up on several occasions, as did 'Jarvis' and 'Danger'. At one point the phrase 'Weird looking guy with the broken nose.' was spoken, which left my pride slightly injured.

They didn't chat for long, and soon I was left to slouch back on my chair, considering the relationship between Louis and Carolyn and fighting minor feelings of jealousy.

Before long my head was tipping to the side, and build-ups of saliva were seeking passage out of my mouth. It was officially time to sleep, even if it was just a few hours.

Okay, so I didn't go straight to sleep, I spent a good twenty minutes draining what was left of my phone battery. It had some heavy use today, enough that I don't think it'll last through another post if I don't throw some energy at it. Energy which had become increasingly hard to come by since the car attached to my charger had been driven away.

At least the same car was scheduled to return tomorrow afternoon.

'Til then, keep it classy.

Luigi Out.


	26. 23092011

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 2309/2011  
>Subject: Gotta Serve Somebody<strong>

So I fixed the charger problem. In the morning I found Ryan's solar charger clumsily discarded on Jarvis' desk, so I totally borrowed it without asking. He came to see me about thirty minutes later, in a mad panic, asking me if I had taken it. I admitted that I had, and he calmed down a little. In the end I negotiated a full days use of the charger, in return I would finish Ryan's chores.

This meant that I would have to venture outdoors, against all sense and reason, and with great possibility that I would suffer bodily abuse.

As luck had it, I was spared from Ian's wrath. Ryan informed me that he had already left for the day on a supply run with several of his cronies. I welcomed the news, but only until I left the tent and realised that Ian, for some reason, had taken with him both Hendryk and Shawn.

It was hard to ignore the feeling that something was about to go horribly wrong, and that a large percentage of my remaining friends could be in serious danger. But hey, at least I had a pile of grubby shirts to wash.

Washing clothes had never been more troublesome. Gone were the days electrical greatness where washing machines, driers and other electronic goodies roamed the Earth. Nowadays, we had to make do with our hands, and a fair amount of soap. I barely tolerated washing my own clothes, so washing somebody else's wasn't my preferred way to kill two hours. The only bonus was that my hands are really clean now, like the spotless, no dirt under the fingernails sort of clean.

I pegged up Jarvis' soaking shirts on a clothesline that hung from his tent. From inside I could hear raised voices, or at least one raised voice, and it belonged to Jarvis. Perhaps he wasn't happy with my washing abilities, and if that was the case then he could kiss my fleshy bits.

It wasn't the case. Jarvis was shouting at Louis, who looked like he had a thousand other things he could be doing, and was about six seconds from knocking Jarvis' teeth out.

Word had gotten back to Jarvis that Ian had taken the initiative to pick his own team for the daily supply run, something that would usually be authorised by Jarvis himself. Even with all his flaws, Ian would usually bow to Jarvis' superiority and wisdom. But not this time. The uneasy feeling that I harboured in my stomach came back in full. If Ian had chosen his own squad, then he had purposefully taken Hendryk and Shawn with him. With all the bad blood between the camp members recently, I had a feeling we would find out Ian's reasons pretty soon, and it would not be good.

With two of my allies out of the picture, my hopes lay with Jarvis' plan. Larry, who had been sent to scout the roads to Starcross, was scheduled to return to the camp today with the news I desperately needed. Even if the news was bad, I would be getting out of this place, and Carolyn was coming with me. I imagine Ryan would have to come too, there's no way he'll stay if I've got his precious solar charger.

Come on Larry, you toothless beaut. We're all counting on you.

Luigi Out.


	27. DATE MISSING

**User:**  
><strong>Date:<strong>  
><strong>Subject:<strong>

Hendryk and Shawn are dead. Larry never showed. This could be my last entry for.. well, ever. It's only now that my life is coming to a swift end that I realise how stupid this whole situation is. Recording the worst days of my life in a digital notepad? Who's dumb-ass idea was that. I don't even know why I'm typing this when I should be running as fast as I can through the forest. I don't know. I can't even think straight. There's so much noise. We didn't even have a plan – or we did, but it was fucking pathetic. It's over. Jarvis knows it. Ryan knows it. I sure as hell fucking know it. It's already over for Hendryk and Shawn, and all they ever did was show me a little compassion.

They were killed for it. That's what happens when your friends with me. You die. Mo and Tom could be dead for all I know, just because they had the misfortune of knowing me. Holy shit. I actually considered praying. If any god has a shred of kindness left in them after royally shitting on this beautiful little world, then they would be doing me a real favour if they could smite down Ian and his flock of hell-hounds. Afterall, he's the closest thing to Satan that I'd ever come across.

I know it won't happen. Nothing good happens anymore. All the good in the world has fled. That's why I was left with these animals. The worst of mankind.

I don't even know what I'm saying. Or WHY I'm saying it. It's fucking useless. What will happen will happen. I have minutes left to live, and I'm not going to spend them curled up in a little ball. That's what they want. That's what they expect.

If you read this – how anyone could even read this is beyond me – but if you do, then know that I've tried my best, my absolute best, to do right in this world.

And now I'm dying for it.


	28. 25092011

**User: LegendLuigi91  
>Date: 2509/2011  
>Subject: Long Road to Ruin<strong>

It's quiet. Quiet and peaceful. Terrifying peaceful, in fact.

The physical pain doesn't even come close to the other pain. The paint hat forever runs travels through your body, picking and scratching at you. You can't think without it tapping you on the shoulder and reminding you it was still there, lingering in the darkest regions of your mind and feeding the poison into your veins.

I have to keep telling myself that it could be worse. Not much worse, but worse.

Hendryk and Shawn were not coming back. Ian made that crystal clear. He sat around the campfire with his cronies, boasting of his accomplishments and drinking to their demise. He christened himself an avenger. His friends had died because of me, so he had led my own friends away from safety and slain them in cold blood. To him they were just an old man and a foreigner, a weakness that had infiltrated his camp. A weakness he had eliminated.

Ryan overheard Ian's gloating, and to his credit came straight to the tent to warn Jarvis, Carolyn and myself that Ian wouldn't be stopping any time soon. There was still weakness for him to be rid of, and riches for him to take.

After a short discussion, and several minutes of alone time in which I forced myself to realize it was time to put a stop to Ian's crusade, the shotgun exited the tent, closely followed by Jarvis and eventually, against all rhyme and reason, myself.

I'd missed the start of the conversation, if you could call it that, but it's easy to fill in the gaps. Ian was barely understandable. The mixture of thick, grotty accent and unthinkable amounts of narcotics had left him numb to reason. He was less like a human being, and more of a festering ball of rage. Or at least more of a festering ball of murderous rage than usual.

A perfect transcript of Ian's drug-fuelled speech doesn't exist, but what follows is as close as you can get.

How dare Jarvis protect me, after what I'd done. How dare Jarvis protect that bitch, after the lengths Ian himself had taken to keep her, Jarvis and the entire camp safe. It was Ian that risked his life every day, diving into fested ruins where no one else would go. And his reward? His home filled with foreigners, his carnal prizes denied to him, and his friends lying dead in the street because of my mistakes. And still, after everything he had been through, he was still lorded over by a decrepit, pathetic old man that would rather see him clamped in chains.

The entire camp stood behind Ian. Perhaps in support or perhaps just wanting to know what would happen next. Despite this, I felt fearless. I felt justified and right. Being on the side that had a shotgun probably went a long towards giving me the resolve to not soil myself.

Jarvis remained unconvinced by Ian's rant. The pressure of the situation, and the surrounding crowd, had pushed him to his limit. He had heard enough, and to be honest I had too. He lifted the gun to his hip, barely even bothering to aim. It would obliterate Ian and whoever had the ill sense to stand behind him.

_BANG._

Jarvis dropped to one knee, a bloody hole appearing in his chest.

_BANG._

A second hole appeared in his head. He toppled backwards, weeping blood from where his eye had once been. The shotgun fell with him.

Ian remained on his feet, holding his deadly weapon, a pistol that looked remarkably like the one I had handed over to Jarvis. It hadn't had any ammo then, but it certainly did now.

My legs were numb, similar to my senses and that thing inside my head that could no longer process simple thoughts. So prepare to be suitably impressed when I say that I managed to run at least twelve yards before somebody smashed me in the back of the leg with a length of metal pipe.

I feel face first into the ground, and a heavy boot found itself on top of my head, holding my face to the dirt. Out of the corner of my eye I could make out Jarvis' body, face down like my own, with the distinction that it was completely still. Lifeless.

Ian carefully plucked the shotgun from Jarvis' grip and lifted it into the air. He held it with a gentle, caressing touch, regarding the tool of destruction as if it was some kind of religious idol. He balanced the shotgun in one palm, and the pistol in the other. After weighing the two weapons he casually tossed the pistol to his closest comrade.

With the shotgun he pointed it at Jarvis, whose head was already a curtain of blood. Still, Ian saw the need to ruin it further, and shot a single round into the dead man's skull, which fell apart beneath the barrage of bullets.

Some of the gathered men flinched as the shot rang out. Others merely looked on nonchalantly. There were a few, a small, vocal minority, who cheered the brutal display, murder reflecting in their eyes. These were the ones that jumped to Ian's command.

'Get me the bitch.'

And they did. She kicked and she screamed as they dragged her outside, and to her credit one of the men was severely bleeding from the nose. I can still fondly recall Carolyn elbowing me in the face in one of her finer moments. I felt like kicking and screaming too, but my limbs were slow to respond, and my face still engulfed in the ground.

I watched as Ian struck her across the face, sending her crumpling into the dirt, inches away from Jarvis' massacred form. She screamed then, not from the pain, but from the sight of her only guardian's skull and brains splattered across the floor.

I was powerless as another man stepped forward and kicked her in the ribs, rolling her over onto her back. He moved in to deal another blow, but Ian called him off. He had another form of punishment on his mind. He grabbed a handful of her hair in one hand and yanked, pulling her up to her feet.

I think if he hit her again, I would have continued to lie there pathetically on the ground, defeated and helpless, waiting for the worst. Yet he didn't strike her, instead he clenched her jaw tightly in his other hand, pulled her in close, and ran his tongue across her face.

The action sent a jolt of unease through me, igniting my wires that connected my brain to my arms and legs.

The weight of the boot that crushed my head to the ground had lessened, perhaps my assailant had become too caught up in the events, or even sought to join in the madness. I didn't care. I took that moment to shove the boot away from me.

With Ian in my sights I heaved myself up onto my knees, ready to charge towards the chaos.

Someone else had a similar idea. A figure burst from the crowd, and barrelled into Ian, sending Carolyn and the shotgun spiralling away.

The fact that I still had a single ally shocked me into stillness. My mind raced until it settled on the image of Ryan, and my blood began to rush, predicting a quick end for my last remaining accomplice.

But it wasn't Ryan. It was Louis. A foot taller and a shade darker, and a thousand times as deadly.

He fell to the ground with Ian, plunging a blade into him as they hit the dirt.

It was a futile effort, the blade missing its desired mark, but an effort all the same. I rushed forward to divert the attention from Louis, but my assailant had recovered, and once again he struck me with the metal pipe, a crippling blow across my back.

My eyes remained on Louis as I stumbled back to my knees. A flock of Ian's cronies had quickly surged forward, grabbing Louis by his arms and tearing him away from Ian's bloody form. He was held from behind as men took it in turns to kick or punch, or to dash him across the head with their weapons. The same weapons that had once been intended only for the dead.

He was crushed beneath the assault, yet still his legs remained solid, and he stood before the onslaught. Finally, a massive, bearded man had the sense to sweep Louis' legs out from beneath him, using a familiar pole-axe. The head of the axe sunk into Louis' calf, almost shredding it from his body. He fell, convulsed once, and lay still.

The pipe again struck me from behind, clubbing me sideways, once again into the mud. My view of Louis was obscured by a stack of lumber, and thinking back, that may have been for the best.

I could still make out Ian, and I watched as he recovered from Louis' attack and rose from the floor, dragging the shotgun with him. His face screwed up in pain as he examined the wound that the knife had punctured in his bicep. He swore as it bled over his hand, but it was pitiful compared to the horrors that had been inflicted to Jarvis and Louis.

He walked towards Louis, and out of my line of sight. I still heard, quite clearly, as he spat out a final insult at Louis.

A gunshot followed.

I felt a questionable need to roll over, perhaps to ensure that I would die face up and staring into the eyes of my murder. It was this motion that may well have saved my life. The metal pipe fell a final time as I rolled, planting itself into the dirt where my head had been only a millisecond before.

I don't remember strapping the knife to my side that day, but I am ever thankful that I did. I also can't recall unsheathing it from my belt as the man raised his pipe again, but I assume I must have, because through some miracle I sat up and buried it into the man's shoe, entering leather, then flesh, then bone, until only the hilt of the knife peeped out from his mangled foot.

He cried out in pain, and fury, a gesture that would have given away our delicate, unseen situation to the assembled crowd, but I was saved by Carolyn, who let out a scream of her own as she was dragged back into the tent by Ian. A scream so piercing that it towered above any other sound, masking the cry of my attacker.

I made a conscious choice, and I'm not proud of it. I chose to do the smart thing, the safe thing, but not the right thing. My moral compass lay shattered elsewhere, but my almost crippled body was dragging itself away from the crowd, and from the man who had borrowed my knife with his foot.

I crawled slowly at first, and then picked up speed as Carolyn screamed again, muffled this time by an unknown force. I began to move faster, blocking out the questions I asked myself, and the names I called myself. Coward. Craven. Cretin. And other 'C' words.

The shame of abandoning her increased as the various voices began to howl and whoop. They echoed around the camp, occasionally interspersed with the yell of the man pinned to the ground by my knife, who was still being ignored by his pack.

I was afraid the guilt would compel me to turn back around, and to rush towards certain death. I was spared making that decision, because an arm suddenly wrapped itself around my shoulders, and hauled me upwards.

I was half carried, half dragged to the perimeter or the camp. The part that hadn't yet been walled off with barbed wire. I was thrown over the derelict cars that separate the camp from the thick forest, and was then once more pulled to my feet, except this time I felt an overwhelming urge to fall asleep.

For the first time in a long time I woke up with no headache. But I think it's safe to say that every other part of my body burned with agony. Bruises swelled, cuts oozed and bones threatened to snap after every tiny movement.

It was still dark. I had no way of telling how much time had passed, nor could I recall exactly how I had made it into the woodland, but somehow I had.

I was propped up against a tree. In no way was it a comfortable tree, but it was brown and leafy, I'll give it that. Next to me was a discarded backpack. I recognized it as Ryan's, and inside was a small inventory of items, a thoughtful collection that would send me happily into the highlands to start a new for myself. If only it was that easy.

There was a full bottle of water; some rope; a lighter; a camping stove; three tins of processed food; a waterproof jacket; a torch; and a nearly full bottle of unidentifiable alcohol that Hendryk had once tried to get us to drink. It was medical alcohol, and it had rendered Shawn blind for several minutes, a memory that stretched a half-smile across my face, at least for a few seconds before I remembered Shawn's current whereabouts. Or the lack of them.

In the side compartment of the pack was my phone, which still had Ryan's solar charger clamped to it. I stared at the device for several moments, hating it and everything it represented, before finally summoning enough inner strength to read my last diary entry. The events flooded back to me, solidifying the facts that Hendryk and Shawn were so very dead. With them, Jarvis and Louis had also perished by Ian's hands and the weapons he held. Was Carolyn killed also? Probably not, I decided, with a sickness filling my stomach. Ian would keep her alive.

And Ryan, was he alive also? I thought he must've been, since he had enough strength to drag me away from the slaughter. But then why had he not stayed by my side, and made sure I'd awoken with mental and physical stability still intact? For a moment I wondered if he had returned to the camp for Carolyn, or for revenge.

No. Revenge and Ryan were not compatible things. I had a feeling that he had fled into the wild, possibly because all of my friends had a habit of ending up corpsified.

I threw my phone back into the bag, blaming it for everything bad that had happened to me. I just couldn't look at it anymore, knowing that it held every moment, every painful memory.

Against all odds I dozed off. I didn't sleep for long, but it had been days since I could fall asleep so easily. I cherished it for the time being.

When I awoke I felt almost renewed. Not physically, my body was still shattered, but my mind was clear, and I could remember the whole ordeal in vivid, gritty detail. The part my mind lingered on was the last few moments, when I had turned and ran. I knew that any other option would have led to my death, and that to run was to live, and to live was to fight another day. Shame still racked me, filling me with the sounds of Carolyn's final screams. But now was not the time to be ashamed.

As I said, I had lived to fight another day.

I practically inhaled the water. Afterwards I considered changing the bandage covering the burn wound Ian had inflicted upon me. I decided not to, since I didn't trust my quivering hands not to botch the operation. I stowed the bandage away in the backpack, because heaven knows that I'm going to need it eventually.

I began to walk. For a dozen minutes I stumbled blindly through the forest before discovering an expanse of overgrown grass. I decided I was probably going the wrong way, and retraced my steps back to the spot where I had slept, marked only by the empty water bottle that I had so carelessly discarded. I chose another direction, and began to walk.

I was at the camp in less than ten minutes.

Well, I was at the lake, which was next to the camp. But still, it was shockingly good navigation on my behalf.

Smoke billowed from a dozen different camp fires, and I noticed that several of the operational vehicles were missing. My Citroen being one of them, which the missing Larry had taken to Starcross.

To my favour, there were only two guards, and from what I could tell they were the only people awake and alert. The rest of the camp was quiet, sleeping soundly after a night of indulgence and revelry. They wouldn't be sleeping soundly for long.

I crept along the camp perimeter, masking the noise of my movements with the constant whistling of the wind. It was slow work, but I finally found myself at the least defensive section of the wall, which also just happened to be the camps entrance.

The first guard sat at a small table, which held a partially drunk bottle of beer and an imposing combat knife. The second guard patrolled the wall, keeping to its outer edge. He would loop around the back of the camp until his shift was over, and then wake another of the campers to take over his duties.

I considered my options. Limited, as always. An idea kept popping into my head, and stealing my train of thought. It was an idea I would have found sickening several days ago. A part of me desperately wished to finally go on the offensive. I needed to get back into that camp, so one of the guards needed to disappear as quietly as possible. For the first time I didn't argue with the devil on my shoulder, I didn't even try to find a weak philosophy to justify what I was about to do. I'd been Mr. Nice Guy up until now, but where had that got me? I'll tell you where; a never ending circuit around near-death-experience-avenue. And to think, I'd regretted leaving Nutter to die inside of that pharmacy. Now I couldn't think of a better way for that piece of shit to spend his final seconds.

I kept to the plan, knowing that if it failed then I would be catching a severe case of the deads. Although even if I succeeded there was still a good chance of ending up on the hot end of Ian's recently claimed shotgun.

I'd delved into my backpack and taken from it the length of rope, wrapping each end of it around both of my clenched fists. I crept forward, inching closer to the guard as he sat passively, hardly bothering to keep a lookout on his surroundings, taking the occasional swig of beer.

I allowed him one last swig, it was the least I could do, and then with a clear conscience and a heavy heart, I looped the rope around his neck and pulled each end as hard as I could in opposite directions, tightening it across his larynx.

He wheezed and spluttered, attempting to call out for help, but no sound could escape his lips, just the muted whistle of constricted vocals. He threw himself backwards, desperate to free himself, but it was this action that certified his end. I fell back into ground with him on top of me, but I kept hold of that rope, and not once did I stop pulling.

I wrapped my legs around his torso, and rolled over so that I was on top of him, forcing his face into the dirt. He scraped at the rope with one hand, and with the other managed to latch onto my arm, squeezing it with his remaining strength and digging his dirty fingernails into my skin.

Another mistake. The pain was intense, and for every second that he squeezed, I pulled the rope a little tighter, until finally his strength began to fade, the pain in my arm receded, and his squirming lessened until finally he fell still. I still refused to slacken the rope around his throat. It took another minute before I judged him suitably dead.

I left the rope, I had no need for it anymore, and took the knife that lay on the table. It fit well in my sheath. I then took a moment to stare down at my handiwork. I felt no remorse. I didn't feel much of anything.

Thirty minutes, I thought to myself. It took the helicopter pilot thirty minutes to turn. The thought pounded around my head. I had knowingly created an undead best, and I was going to allow it to run rampant through the camp.

I snuck past tents, unconscious drunken bodies, and piles of empty bottles, until finally finding my former home; the tent I had shared with Ryan. It was still happily standing, despite the terrors that surrounded it.

Ryan was not inside, further cementing the idea that he had pulled up his roots and abandoned me. I would have liked to say goodbye, but it was too late, and I had a misshapen plan to execute.

Twenty-nine minutes.

Step one. I had stashed a bottle of vodka beneath my skimpy pillow some days before. I emptied over the floor, a sacrifice I was willing to make. Secondly, I needed a spare shirt. I'd been wearing the same _Ramones_ T-Shirt since I'd deserted my flat all that time ago, and I'd become pretty attached to it. It was spared only by the fact that Ryan kept a stack of spare clothes at the foot of his sleeping bag, which I figured he wouldn't need anytime soon.

I ripped up one of his shirts, tearing it lengthways so the material would resemble a rag. I soaked the rags in the vodka pool that had gathered on the floor of the tent, and then stuffed them into my bottles of medicinal alcohol.

Sixthly – Hell, if you don't know what I'm doing by now then you need to go play _Grand Theft Auto_. I was mixing a very special kind of cocktail, the kind that wouldn't render you drunk as much as it would seriously expose you to fourth degree burns.

Twenty-two minutes.

For twenty of those minutes I absently juggled a lighter between my hands, and then for the remaining two minutes I sat in silence. Thirty minutes had passed, give or take. It would be any minute now. The suspense was almost too much, so I hummed the _Indiana Jones _theme to pass the time.

There was a scream, and the comforting sounds of a commotion. These were the signs that my plan had hatched, and not only had it hatched: it was a glorious fucking eagle, with claws and other cool shit.

I stormed, literally stormed, from the tent. A group of campers were gathered opposite me, crowding around another tent which had collapsed onto an unlucky sleeper. There was a second scream, muted this time, and they threw themselves away from the tent, just as the zombified guard erupted from its insides, a mouthful of flesh still hanging from its mouth.

That was my cue. I lit the rag that poked out from the opening of the first bottle. When it quickly caught fire I had a small moment of panic, but quickly controlled myself and took aim.

My target was the collapsed tent. I pulled my arm back and launched the flaming cocktail through the air.

I was already on the move as the bottle landed, so I didn't see the spectacular gout of flame spread amongst a cluster of quite flammable tents. I lit the second rag as I ran, and this time sent the bottle in the direction of the camps supply stock. I hoped that there would be a few flammable goodies tucked amongst them, perhaps a few dozen cans of petrol.

By now the majority of the campers had dragged themselves from their beds to see what the loud noises and bright light were about. In all the chaos they didn't notice me weaving between them as I made my way towards the central tent.

The running didn't play well with my injured body, and pains shot through my side as I stumbled past two hurrying campers who rushed towards the fire holding buckets of water. My chances of overpowering Ian weren't high, not when I couldn't throw a glass bottle without my arm screaming bloody murder. Yet I had the beauty of surprise on my side, and I was no stranger to dumb luck.

I had unsheathed my knife as the biggest of the tents loomed in front of me. I steered clear of the front entrance, and instead found the spot where several nights before I had found Louis, crouched in the shadows and secretly communicating with Carolyn.

Ignoring the various flashes of orange around me, I sank my knife into the material of the tent and cut downwards, creating an entrance. I didn't even pause to think before forcing myself through the small slit, but for an instant I dreaded who and what I would find inside.

At worst I expected a body, and just as expected the spreading fire illuminated the single body that lay in the middle of Carolyn's room. It was naked, covered only by a mass of crimson blood. It was uncensored, and undeniably dead, frozen in its final act.

It was Ian.

Carolyn sat, wide-eyed and gory, in the corner of the room. She held a knife of her own in both hands, and it was stained a dark, sinewy red. Her eyes darted from Ian's corpse to the knife, and then to me. Her mouth hung half-open, and quivered slightly, as if the unspoken words had caught beneath her tongue.

I took a step forward, and her arms instantly straightened in response, aiming the point of the knife at me like the barrel of a gun. I focused on its tip, the apex, and then looked down at Ian's stiff carcass.

Relief. It flooded through me like a welcome peroxide. Knowing that men had died for me was like a toxin, mass producing throughout my body. The sight of Ian, locked in his final, bloody moment did much to remedy the toxin, but not all of it. Things like this aren't easy to detach yourself from, and it would be an insult to my friend's memories if I ignored them. The ache reminded me that while they were alive, they were good people, and they deserved better.

I took the waterproof jacket out of my pack and held it out for Carolyn. She didn't take it, nor did she budge from the safety of her corner.

I dropped to one knee, placed the coat on the floor in front of me and sheathed my knife. Looking her dead in the eye, I offered her my hand, and told her, with complete certainly, that she should come with me if she wants to live.

Because if you can't honestly tell someone that everything is going to be okay, then you may as well quote _Terminator_.

She frowned at my inappropriate use of 80's pop culture, and then shook her head as if shaking away the mist that hovered around her thoughts. She inched forward, keeping the knife held out in front of her, and snatched up the jacket.

She didn't take my hand, but she nodded at me with a face full of seriousness. No more words were said, nor did they have to be. I wished that I could have reached out and embraced her and make her forget every fucked up thing that had happened, but right now the last thing she needed was my touch. We left the tent together, yet she remained separated from me in a way I could never comprehend.

Sneaking of the tent was an easy process. The convicts were mostly preoccupied with not being burnt alive, and had rightfully decided that their efforts should be put towards putting out the raging fire. It was a shame that they were rather efficient at it. The original fire had been stamped out, but the camps supplies were still engulfed in flame, occasionally shooting out sparks and spreading across the grass.

It was the best kind of distraction: destructive, loud and a various shade of pretty colours. Carolyn scrambled away from the confusion and towards the tree-line, with me following. The lookout who had patrolled the back fence was nowhere to be seen, but hopefully scorching his fingers on my bonfire. Carolyn grappled the bottom of the fence as I kept watch. And then peeled back an already sabotaged section, apparently using her super human strength.

I sent an inquisitive eyebrow her way, curious as to who might've had the foresight to create such a useful escape route.

'Louis.'

Her hollowed, strangled voice spoke miles, confirming a story I had only guessed at. It was a reminder of the pain she had endured, and the risks that were still present.

We left the camp.

We began slow, curving around the lake and hitting the tree-line. As soon as we entered the woods there was a gunshot from somewhere far behind us. The sound of it echoing throughout the forest sent me hiding behind the nearest tree.

I would've liked to hide for longer, but Carolyn continued as if nothing had happened, eerily immune to the noise. Admittedly, the sound had probably originated in the camp, with someone taking it upon themselves to silence an invading Z, or an infected camper. Either way, a gunshot is a clear sign to duck behind something solid, at least for me.

Catching up to Carolyn wasn't an issue. She had stopped in a small clearing, as if waiting for me. I carried on past her for a second, thinking she would follow, but her attention wasn't on me. Her eyes darted between the looming trees and the overflow of tangling brush.

Excepting the chaotic noises coming from the distant camp, I could hear only the rustle of the wind making its way through the woods.

I was almost too frightened to approach Carolyn and pull her from her reverie, afraid that she may recoil from my presence, or bolt away into the unknown.

And then logic filtered its way into my head, and I was suddenly aware that past every cloud of pitch-blackness, there could be a brigade of Z's, drawn to us by the colours and the noise of the camp. The ever present danger that Camp-Kill-Yourself had managed to overshadow. Until now.

As if to solidify my observation, somewhere in the thickness a branch had taken the time out of its busy schedule to crunch beneath an unseen boot.

Someone stalked towards us. Not with the erratic shamble of a pair of corpsified feet, but with careful, measured steps.

Two eyes appeared in the darkness. Familiar, dark and growing closer as the feet beneath them found their way towards Carolyn and me.

It was him. Ryan, I mean. Back from whatever cave he had been hiding in, I assumed.

For the first time that night I smiled, and decided that in the smallest way, I would count this as a victory.

Carolyn exhaled, her breath releasing in almost a whimper, and backed away from Ryan. I forced a small laugh to break the tension. His entrance had been tense and dramatic, but Ryan himself was nothing of the sort. Compared to the other men at the camp, he was a teddy bear.

But he had not got off lightly. His eyebrow was cut, and sealed with dry blood, and his nose was almost a replica of my own. Crushed and broken. And his eyes... well, there was nothing wrong with his eyes, but they looked straight past me, and at Carolyn.

I turned, if only to see what Ryan found so fascinating, and then flinched away as Carolyn's knife swept through the air.

She held it before her, her arm shaking, her eyes wide. Eyes that regarded Ryan with loathing, with hate. It truly scared me to realise how deep her distrust seemed to go. Anybody, even the harmless Ryan, was a threat to her.

I had to diffuse the situation before someone was accidentally hurt. I turned back to Ryan to reassure him that together we were as safe as we could get.

And I'm not ashamed to say that on some level, my heart broke.

Here was my only true friend, the first to welcome me to the camp, the kid I'd pulled off of a surrounded bus shelter. The only guy I really trusted, who lived through constant abuse just because he was associated with me.

And he had a gun pointed at my head.

My body rejected it. It was a joke, a sick joke. I had a dozen excuses for Ryan holding me at gunpoint, but he was silent, and ashamed, and certain. The gun never strayed from my body, and his eyes never left Carolyn.

Tears had filled Carolyn's eyes, and perhaps my own too. I ignored her, still trying to make sense of the situation. Of all the horrible, shitty things that had happened that day, I could not add Ryan to that list. I wouldn't.

'She's mine.'

He could only manage a whisper, but it was clear as day. I added Ryan to the list.

'Stay the fuck away from me.'

Glorious, wonderful Carolyn. I was speechless, unable to string a single coherent thought together. Carolyn, like the knife in her hands, held strong. Beneath a mad man and his gun, she still refused to lose control of herself, or be once more imprisoned.

That didn't mean anything made sense, or that I was any less dazed and confused.

I looked at Ryan again, the cut and the fractured nose, the gun in his hands and the distraught, shameful set of his face.

He had dragged me away from harm, away from Ian and the men who would beat me to death, like they had Louis.

But, then he had left me.

And returned to the camp. To Ian and the others. Not for revenge, or even supplies. He had gone back for Carolyn. Not to take her away. But to take her.

I said his name softly. Accusingly. He said nothing in response, but his head bowed slightly, and his eyes flickered to the floor.

'Everything that's happened – that I've been through. She's mine. I need -'

Carolyn cut him off, not with words, but with a snarl, an outlet of frustration and denial. The gun nearly shifted away from my head, but Ryan still saw me as a threat, troubled and unarmed perhaps, but still a threat.

I held out a hand to Carolyn, only to stop her from leaping towards him and forcing his hand. Nobody was going to die, nobody was going to use the gun, or their knife. Even knowing what Ryan had done – for his own gain, or because of his desperation to be part of the camp – I still couldn't imagine hurting him.

Unable to understand the motives of his madness, I looked him dead in the eye, and hoped it would be the final time. Then I left him with his own shame, turning my back and telling him simply: 'You're not going to shoot me.'

And then he shot me.

Carolyn became a blur of movement, and my surroundings became a blur unto their own. The ground hurtled towards me as my knees called it quits. Blood began to pour down the side of my head, and somewhere on my body I began to sting, adding another hurt to my current score sheet.

There was some kind of scuffle behind me, but I didn't notice, nor care. The sound was fleeting and mostly drowned out by the ringing in my ears. I barely made out a miserable cry of pain. Still I ignored it. I lay there, oddly warm, letting the blood flow and my mind wander. Ryan had meant no harm, I thought, he was a good lad. Mistreated, and then misunderstood. He had been given nothing, so he could only take. I thought of other things. I used to think going to school and realising that I'd forgotten my pencil was the worst thing that could happen to me. It turned out it wasn't. Want to you know what's worse? Getting shot. And worse than that? Getting shot _twice, _on completely separate occasions. I closed my eyes.

Ten minutes must have passed before I realised that I wasn't dying, and probably wouldn't. The blood had even cooled, sticking to the side of my head and neck. I tried to flex my fingers and realised I could, so I used them to feel around my face, seeking the point of contact where the bullet had met flesh.

My face was unscathed, if you didn't count my broken nose and blackened eyes, which is kind of you. My neck was also devoid of any bullet holes, but my fingers came away coated in blood.

I followed the trail upwards past my jaw line, following the thick side burn that I'd began to develop. I didn't feel any holes, or even flesh wounds. Then again, I didn't feel my ear either.

I tried again, attempting to pinch my earlobe, but I could not.

Instead I flinched and swore as my fingers connected with the shreds of skin that remained. I breathed a sigh of relief as I tenderly patted my ear bud, and the cartilage that protected it. The earlobe however, was worryingly absent.

I wasn't able to worry for long. I'd recovered my senses, and my hearing – even without the earlobe – had warned me of movement from close behind.

I rolled onto my back and looked up, seeing Carolyn standing amongst the darkness. Ryan was not stood, nor was he face down in the dirt like I had just been.

He slumped against a tree, his breathing rapid. One hand still held the gun, yet his arm hung loosely at his side. The other hand was slick with blood and clawing at the knife impaled into his shoulder.

After a while he stopped his struggle, and let this hand also fall to his side. He dropped further down the tree, and his head rocked to the side like a rag doll.

At last he met my eyes, able to tear them away from Carolyn for his final, agonizing moment. His lips quivered, but made no sound. Nor would they ever.

Not for thirty minutes, at least.

Carolyn offered me no help, not that I asked for it. Instead she gazed down at her second kill of the evening, and I was left to hook an arm over a branch that hovered above and pull myself up. It took several tries.

Once back on my feet, I had an urge to search around for my dismembered earlobe. But it would take forever to find, if it hadn't been disintegrated by the bullet. The thought of sewing it back onto my remaining ear made my insides squirm, so I left it behind, wherever it may be. It had joined the list of friends who had been taken away from me far too soon.

You may think I am sounding way too calm about losing my lobe, or losing Ryan. The truth is that there are only so many things that my brain can do at once, and it was working overtime. Seventy percent of my brain power was dedicated to identifying, analysing and reminding me of my physical pains. Lost earlobes, broken noses, charred scalps, bruised knuckles and pipe-shaped bruises. Twenty-nine percent of my brain power was having severe troubling understanding what had just happened. People that I had known and spoken to just yesterday were now completely erased from my life. My remaining companion barely acknowledged me, or the dangers around us, and had a knack for stabbing other human beings – deserved as it may be, it still made me uneasy. The last one percent of brain power had called it quits, handed in his resignation and was enjoying his early retirement somewhere in Morocco, probably.

So believe me when I say that I was mentally shattered, and it was a colossal effort to even decide which direction to go, and even then I had to convince my legs to take me there.

I had to call Carolyn's name five times before she finally jerked away from Ryan's still form. Matted hair, clogged with flaky blood, stuck to her face, and beneath the waterproof jacket her remaining clothes hung loose and torn. She wasn't particularly affected by the cold, not yet, but that would change when her blood cooled and the adrenaline faded.

I backed away slowly, continuing in the direction that would put the most distance between us and the camp. She followed, knife still clutched to her chest, and onwards we went.

I tripped and fell several times, blind beneath the midnight canopy, before I remembered the torch inside my backpack. Ryan's last gift to me, everything I'd need to get as far away as possible from Ian and his house of horrors. He probably hadn't expected me to return, if he had then he should've practised his aim.

The torch helped tremendously. They do that sometimes, especially when it's dark. It came with an issue however, because now that I could see, my mind began to play cruel tricks on me.

A stunted tree became a looming, many-armed zombie. A leafy overhang could easily be mistaken for a swarm of zombie-bats when a group of birds abandoned their nest, causing it to erupt with noise. Even Carolyn was distorted by the torchlight and my fear of the unknown. It didn't help that there was blood smeared across her jacket, and cuts layering her face.

Mammoth sized trees loomed on either side of us, dark and brooding. All attempts to keep my thoughts blank failed, and I began to see the garbled images of ghosts, serial killers and demon-children float through my mind. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't help but think of the countless nights I had spent watching those slasher flicks, or those exorcism marathons.

I kept on, cold sweat collecting on my head and neck. The chills along my spine became a common occurrence. The sound of my over-exaggerated breathing was my only comfort. Carolyn's presence did nothing to cleanse my childlike fears; her immunity to everything around her was almost as eerie as the darkness that stalked us.

The rest of that night was much of the same. A constant battle inside my own head. The zombies that inhabited the country paled in comparison to the horrors that I created. The Z's themselves hadn't populated the forest, there isn't a whole lot of food for them around these parts, so they have no reason to explore them. Knowing that gave me the smallest of comforts.

We reached an incline. Steep, rocky and impossible to climb in my current state. Instead we followed its edge, and changed direction. It was around then that the ringing in my ears had began to recede, at least enough for me to make out the sound of running water.

Several minutes later we found a stream running alongside the cliff face. Fresh water isn't something to pass up, but I could think of nothing worse than trudging through the woods by night in wet clothing. It was cold enough as it was. Still, I decided to follow the stream, even if it meant changing direction. The sound calmed my nerves somewhat, and watching the flowing water was as good a distraction as I was likely to find.

I found something else soon after. A cave had carved itself into the side of the cliff, burrowing deep into its core. Round and pitch-black, just like a cave should be, with vines creeping out of its mouth and along the rocky wall – which I at first assumed to be giant, hairy spider legs.

In all honesty I didn't know why I hadn't already stopped moving, and found somewhere to spend the night. Maybe I was scared of the dreams I'd have, or the things I'd be forced to think about if I couldn't sleep.

Now I had a cave, and no more excuses. I went to tell Carolyn that we could stay here until it was daylight, but she was already one step ahead of me and climbing up into the opening, which was perhaps four feet above the ground.

I handed my backpack up to her, and then gathered an armful of dry sticks and threw them into the entrance.

Pulling myself into the cave used more muscles than I thought it would. I could tell because they all ached in protest as I crawled towards Carolyn.

It wasn't deep, or very roomy, but two people could fit comfortably, with room to have a small fire. Carolyn settled into the back of the cave while I assembled my kindling. The flames caught quickly, and for some time I sat and watched the patterns they made.

I kept myself busy that night. I gathered sticks, twigs and eventually logs. I attempted to sharpen my knife with a flat rock, but it didn't feel much sharper afterwards. I emptied the contents of the backpack, held the three tins of mushy food sadly in my hands, and then repacked it. I peeled back the bandage that stuck to the back of my head. It was discoloured from the blood and pus, and I threw it away in disgust. I used the spare bandage as a rag, and soaked my burn, and carefully cleaned the remaining part of my ear. I thought of Tom, and Mo, and Starcross. I undid my boots and warmed my feet on the fire. I cried, a little, and I watched Carolyn as she slept, cringing every time she twitched.

I did pretty much everything except sleep. It just didn't seem important any more.

The sun eventually found its way back into the sky. With it came all the things I'd hoped for, such as warmth and light. Enough light for me to stomp out the remains of the fire, and gently call Carolyn's name until she yelped and rolled away from me, all the while clutching her knife.

I gave her a few moments to get herself together. I used those moments to hop out of the cave and brave the ice-cold water that flowed past the bottom of the cliff.

You'd think the exhaustion would've caught up to me by then. I did feel it, but in a numb, uncaring sort of way. Still, the water did exactly what it said on the tin and returned me to complete wakefulness, with an additional dosage of paranoia.

I couldn't help but feel that the peaceful, surrounding forest was trying to trick me into a false sense of security. Leaves rustled, crickets chirped and birds sang, creating a warm harmony that would've been hard to find even in the pre-world. But the tranquil sounds could be masking the give-away noise that a zombie makes when galloping through the woodland.

So I remained on edge. As did Carolyn, but for other reasons, probably. We were packed up and ready to move on in mere minutes, which was quite easy when your belongings consist of two knives, some camping gear, and a meagre supply of baked beans.

I chose not to cook the beans for breakfast. Instead I planned to head south and find some kind of town, or village. Only then would I break out the beans as my reward, like a 1st place prize in the race to nowhere.

We stomped our way through the foliage, wishing hopelessly for it not to rain, but the blue skies were soon engulfed by a depressing grey, and shortly after the rain began to fall.

It made everything worse. My mood, Carolyn's silence, the mud beneath our feet, the ragged clothes on our backs. I lost my footing and fell twice, each time Carolyn watched me with hard eyes, and never did she offer me a helping hand, or a word of comfort. The bitterest part of my soul began to resent bringing her with me, but I shut it down instantly, refusing to let something as trivial as bad weather to reduce me to that level.

We didn't cover as much ground as I had hoped to, even after the rain cloud was swept away into the horizon. We at least had the good fortune to avoid the arms and teeth of Dorchester's woodland zombie populace that morning. The extreme lack of zombie activity would be enough to convince a woefully ignorant person that the disease had disappeared for good.

Damn shame that I'm plain ignorant, as opposed to woefully ignorant.

So I knew better than to let my guard down, especially when my offensive arsenal included two knives and the supernatural ability of getting shot on a semi-regular basis.

I didn't even miss my right earlobe. It's not like I had an earring, or a sentimental memory that involved my lobe. To be honest, outside of a fashion accessory, earlobes are barely worth having. So to me it was just another casualty of the war I struggled to fight, and not even worth mentioning when compared to the other friends that I've lost. It was a flap of skin that was attached to my head, and now it isn't.

That's not to say it didn't sting like twelve hells.

My mood eventually succumbed to a new low. I began kicking things. Twigs, sticks, stones, clumps of dirt. At one point I found a mole hill. Not even the homes of the furry and blind were safe from my heavy-footed destruction. I didn't even care what Carolyn thought of my silent tantrum. I was wet, cold and hungry, and it was all nature's fault.

So I kicked more stones, at least until I got bored of it. And then, and I'm not proud of this, I _threw _a stick. Threw it. As far as I could, into the unknown beyond. It didn't feel particularly rewarding, and it didn't do much to cure my melancholy mood, but what it did do, is start off an entirely new and distracting series of events.

Because the stick hit something, something standing upright, hidden amongst the maze of knobbly, expansive Oak trees.

The being made a noise, and I stopped in my tracks, flinging out an arm so Carolyn knew things were about to take a violent turn for the worse.

It grunted again, and then rattled out some kind of aggravated howl. The stick I'd thrown lay somewhere forgotten, but it had done its job. It had awoken the dormant zombie.

Fortunately its eyesight wasn't quite up to scratch, it didn't spot us straight away as we crept backwards and lowered ourselves closer to the ground. There was a knife in my hand before I registered the movement, as if my palm was magnetic. I hoped I wouldn't have to use it, my early morning wash had removed most of the blood from my skin and I was happy to keep it that way.

Nature had a different idea, the wanker.

If you were curious about the Z's cause of death, there was a mass of intestinal mess hanging from a hole in its stomach. That'll put a swift end to your living days.

I had to stop myself from picking my nails with the knife, it was a filthy habit, and occasionally painful. I knew I had to aim for the head. Always the head. The brain, preferably. Knife – Head. It was such a simple equation, but still I crouched there, in the brush, imagining the blood and mess that would leak from the Z's skull. It would be all over my hands, my arms, my clothes. Spraying from the gouge in his skull, much like how Jarvis' face had dissolved beneath the power of the shotgun, and how during Louis' last breath his mouth had filled with blood and bile. A knife to the skull, perhaps that was how Hendryk and Shawn died, unsuspecting of the betrayal. A knife to the skull, or a knife across the throat.

There was an urge to vomit, and then it was all spilling out of me. The grass was stained a shade of yellowy-brown. Take that, Mother Nature.

I was unable to control my bodily functions for the next several seconds – key seconds that I had intended to use to assassinate the undead creature that lurked close by. Fortunately when I looked up after spewing my guts out, the zombie had fallen amongst the growth of tree branches, a brand new hole in his head. Carolyn stood over the corpse, knife in hand, grimace on face.

I was speechless, with words sticking in my throat. Foul tasting words which were coated in my remaining stomach fluids. She casually wiped the grime from the blade on the sleeve of the thick winter coat that I'd lent her during the initial downpour. The same one I'd borrowed from my temporary apartment back in Frome. It's strange to think that life was simpler, and safer, back in those days.

What worried me most was where exactly that Z had come from. Perhaps a survivor had wandered into the woods seeking refuge, but had consequently lost some of his more important innards to some kind of aggressive woodland critter.

Or perhaps we were close to, well, somewhere. A place where people lived, and died, and then lived again. At least until Carolyn murdered them.

So I wasn't sure what to expect when we continued through the woods. More than anything I'd like to come across some kind of house, even a creepy cabin in the woods, as long as it was indoors and away from the cold and wet.

We found the place soon after. It looked like it had been there for centuries, slowly gathering dust, moss and half-eaten bodies. Seriously, the place was a bloodbath. Vines crept across all sides of the two-story cabin, occasionally obscured by some form of butchery. Men, women and children were strewn around the property, unmoving and sporting all kinds of fatal head injuries, except the ones that had been nibbled down to their bones.

It was a gruesome scene, made worse by the several bodies that still twitched, moaned and writhed. One of them, a teenage female, had its arm embedded in a window, snagged on the remaining shards of pincer-like glass.

Another roamed freely, completely naked, unphased by the September wind, letting his zombified private parts swing in the breeze. It was truly, truly disturbing.

Carolyn didn't even blink at the sight of a nude zombie, she seemed more concerned with the struggling teen, which had caught our scent and wanted nothing more than to dislodge its arm and launch itself after us.

We agreed without words which of the Z's we would personally take care of. This time I managed to finish the job without upending the contents of my stomach. The zombie snapped its attention to me as I made my presence known, and then it charged me with the speed and ferocity of an injured sloth. The knife entered and exited its neck, angled upwards to unhinge whatever still lived inside its head. I did my best to stay at a distance, and keep my fingers away from the saliva that dribbled down its mouth with each groan and snarl.

Another of the undead lay amongst the chaos, pulling itself slowly towards me, mangy tangled hair covering its face. Both of its legs were bent in awkward directions, rendering them as useless as the rest of its body. I put it out of its misery before it could finish saying "Hrrnghghrhgnghn".

Carolyn had de-wedged her kill from the window, and laid it to rest beside another unrecognisable corpse. The window came in handy after I'd tried forcing entry through the front door and failed. I could've definitely shouldered it down, but it seemed to me like unnecessary vandalism, so instead I smashed a bigger hole in the already damaged window and rolled into a darkened room.

I fell into a wide-eyed crouch, holding my knife out in front of me to ward off any attackers, human or not. The house remained silent, the only noise coming from behind me as Carolyn followed me into the room.

From then we moved together through the house, silent and deadly, from bloodstained kitchen to hastily fortified lounge area. When it was apparent that the ground floor of the house was no longer inhabited, we moved upstairs, and found both bedrooms equally empty.

So we were alone, and relatively safe. All that was left to do now was search the entire house for teabags and get a brew on the go.

The kitchen was an absolute mess. There was a back-door to the outside, but it had been boarded up and nailed shut, on the wooden floor beneath it were several smears of hardened blood. I ignored all of that though, I was only interested in the teabags.

I found a pot of them, and they still smelled half decent. To be honest, I wouldn't have cared if they were a decade old and sprouting mouldy antlers. Nothing could cure my ill spirits like a lovely mug of fresh tea, or failing that, a mug of lukewarm tea-scented water.

Despite the smell of stale blood, I set up a cooking station on the kitchen side, laying out my camping stove, a bottle of water and a small canister of fuel to ignite my flame. In minutes I had a canister full of beans heating over a tiny fire, with two cups of tea simmering to one side. Carolyn was still searching for a key to the front door, and it would be rude to start drinking without her.

My search of the kitchen had been filled with dismay and bad smells. All the non-perishable foods had been ransacked, leaving just a heap of mouldy fruit and vegetable, which made me feel kind of sad. It reminded me of all the times that myself and Mo had bought fruit and vegetables, and then not eaten them. Eventually they had rotted and cultivated their own mould, at that point they were only good for being thrown at the annoying school kids across the street.

What I did find was a can of Sprite, a box of candles and a container of white rice, still hard and musky. I wasn't a rice scientist or anything, but I had a feeling that it could still be within its edible limits, so I tucked it into my pack for later use.

Carolyn finally joined me in the kitchen, having sought out a suitable change of clothes. She had her own coat now, so she returned mine, also handing over a couple of extra pairs of socks and a shirt to replace my soiled one. In exchange I gave her a bowl of beans, a mug of cold tea and a lit candle.

Then it was pretty awkward. I mean, we hadn't talked about anything since we'd left our cave that morning. Our communication with each other had dwindled into nods and exaggerated body language. Now it was just silence. Not a tolerable silence, where you can listen to the traffic, or birdsong, or zombie hordes. The only sound around us was the gentle scrape of spoon on bowl, and a weird sort of ringing in my right ear which I'd only just noticed.

A lot of hours still remained in the day after we had eaten, and I was determined to use them wisely. I repacked my case, which I seemed to be doing on a daily basis, this time including some new clothes and supplies from the cabin, along with a cleaver from the kitchen which I'd wrapped in cloth.

I patrolled outdoors for a good hour, looking for weaknesses in the structure. Apart from the smashed window, which was currently the only way in and out of the house, the place was secure as it was going to get. It was a mini sanctuary of sorts, and whoever had abandoned it must've had a damn good reason. The garden was overgrown, and from it I could make out a small attic window above what I assumed to be the bedrooms. There was also a small shed built against the back of the cabin, but it too had been stripped of anything useful, except a rusted rake, in case I felt like a bit of gardening.

So I lit a few candles, pushed a table up against the broken window to ease my mind, and then made my bed, well, I made somebody's bed.

And then I actually led down. On a bed. I led down _on a bed_. It was a pretty monumental moment. And by that I mean monumentally comfortable. The sun was barely dipping beneath the ground, but I still found myself dozing off, and before I knew it the covers were over me, my boots were thrown across the floor and I was face down on my pillow. Not out of choice of course, but because the burn across the back of my head prevented me from sleeping in any other position, at least without constant spasms of pain reminding me that only days had passed since I'd been roasted over a bonfire like a giant flustered marshmallow. That and the severed ear.

I'd like to say that my dreams were filled with daisy fields and rainbows, but they were not. The smoke filled nightmares jerked me awake part way through the night with a sweat-soaked, pounding head.

My hand instantly went to my belt to check that I hadn't lost my knife, the only weapon I had left. I patted it happily, rolling onto my back – and then shot up as the half formed scab rubbed against the pillow. It was a raw and ugly thing. I'd been unable to resist looking at it in the mirror earlier. A pale red abomination, flecked with brown and sitting amongst my remaining curls of hair like an abstract crop circle.

I'd never looked worse. I'd had horrible haircuts, and horrible dye jobs, but none of those gave me the look of a deranged psychopath quite like my half-missing ear. The flesh at the bottom was seared and crusty, and there was a line of damaged skin across my neck where the bullet had barely missed me. At least it distracted from my crooked nose, a souvenir from the day I'd met Ian and Nutter. I didn't miss them. Added to these deformities was a thick layer of hair covering my lower face and jaw, which for once didn't look unevenly prepubescent. It had only taken twenty years.

Carolyn had taken up residency in the other bedroom. I know this because I couldn't help checking in on her as she slept, just to know that she hadn't abandoned me after I'd fallen asleep. I watched her snooze softly in absolute stillness for several seconds, until her hand moved to lie on the knife that sat on her bedside table, and her eyes snapped open to glare a hole through me.

I backtracked pretty quickly, with a face full of scarlet, almost tripping over my own feet as I retreated downstairs, looking for something to distract myself from the fact that Carolyn had just caught me peeping on her sleeping. So, soawkward.

The temptation to drink the dusty can of Sprite was immense, but it seemed like something I should share with Carolyn, or perhaps offer as a gift in hopes that she'd forget my poorly timed and creepy ways.

A small issue arose as I attempted to find my Sprite; my bag was missing. Just vanished into thin air. I was sure that I'd left it on the kitchen side, next to my unwashed cooking stuffs. In fact I recalled in vivid detail looking at it fondly for several minutes instead of washing the dishes, because it seemed silly to do household chores amidst a destroyed populace.

But seriously, the fact remained that my pack was gone. I began to sweat, and my palms and forehead clammed up. The front of my head ached, joining the other twinges of pain as I wandered around the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers to try and locate the missing pack. The lounge produced similar results, and I had half a mind to pull down the overturned table and explore the outdoors. All sorts of madness rolled around my head, until eventually I stumbled into the back room, a complete wreck, and the backpack finally revealed itself, leaning up against an ugly, pillowless sofa.

It was on its side, with the zip undone, contents spilling out over the floor. What the actual fuck. I scanned the room for potential threats. Empty. I racked my brain for a forgotten memory, perhaps of Carolyn moving the bag, or it being able to sprout its own set of legs and walk about.

No. It was an inanimate object. How _could_ it travel from the kitchen into the back-room, and spill its insides over the floor, all by itself? It couldn't. And that scared me.

I poked and prodded at it, and then checked over its contents. Thankfully, the can of Sprite was still present, but the remaining tin of beans was not.

At that point the hairs on the back of my neck sensed something was wrong, and began to tingle. Not only had someone knocked over my bag, they had also done a runner with my beans.

It was so silly that I collapsed in the armchair, devoid of any kind of worry. A missing tin of beans seemed a pathetic thing to cry over, especially considering what had happened to the woman that pretended to sleep upstairs, the same woman who felt it necessary to keep a knife within an arm's reach of her bed.

I was worried that my bag had moved, but only a day ago I had seen men killed, and had strangled someone to death, purely because they were in my way. It sort of put things into perspective.

I'd avoided thinking about the man I'd killed, but now as I put it into words it has suddenly become real again. A week ago I wouldn't have dreamed of harming another human being. And now? I dread to think of the lengths I would go to in order to protect myself and my friends. Long lengths. Dark lengths. But those stories are yet to come, or perhaps never will. I will remain hopeful that nobody will ever force me to do such things again.

I look at the bag and laugh. Not much of a laugh, but a laugh all the same.

I haven't laughed for so long.

It feels good. _So_ good. Laughter should never be missing from a person's life, even if their life is filled with misery.

I feel like I can smile again now, just for the sake of smiling. It won't bring back my friends, or even my beans, but I'll do it anyway.

Luigi alive and out.


	29. Interlude

*** END OF PART 1! ***

So, writing that was fun. It was also long, tiring and sometimes hard. That is why it has taken so long for me to return to this story and pick up where I left it. Things got pretty dark, right?

Creating characters is the funnest part of writing a novel, and killing them is just the WORST. Fun fact, I wanted to Shawn to live forever. _FOREVER_. But to continue, everyone had to die. Sorry about that.

I welcome all the reviews, favourites and messages, please keep them coming. If you message me, I'll do my best to reply. I'm a student, a fledgling writer and a most-of-the-time musician so it can often take a while for me to get back to you, but don't let that put you off.

This story will now continue, and it will be filled with poorly timed humour, fun new characters, the deaths of those fun new characters, and the ocassionally attempt at a romance plot, because I haven't tried one of those before.

Also, there will be nunchucks. I don't even care if that's a spoiler.

Luigi Out.

Wait, no. That's not me.

Max out.


	30. 26092011

**User: LegendLuigi91**  
><strong>Date: 2609/2011**  
><strong>Subject: The Small Hours<strong>

This morning has been great. Superb, in fact. I even had a lie in. An honest to god lie in. And _then_ I had a cup of tea for breakfast. It's almost like being a student again.

Oh, except nowadays when I leave the house to get some milk and eggs, I don't have to avoid traffic and drug dealers. I have to avoid being murdered by dead people.

So it's a little bit different.

I'm handling my sudden scenario change quite well. Carolyn, on the other hand, isn't doing as great. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that she doesn't want to confide in me, or offer me some sort of friendship, or speak to me at all. It still makes me feel pretty low. But I've had a lie in and a cup of tea, so it balances itself out, I guess.

My tin of beans is still missing, and now the worry has truly set in. Food isn't an easy thing to come by these days, the supplies that Ryan had left me with are now extinguished.

Ryan. A sore subject. I wish I could say he was gone and never forgotten, but it's a wound that still weeps, and his single mistake outweighs the collection of fond memories I have of the imprisonment we spent together.

I decided to try the rice. The musky, preserved rice that was discovered inside my new abandoned abode. It wasn't good, and it certainly wasn't beans, but it was edible, at least.

I shared the rice with Carolyn, and half a can of Sprite. After the paltry meal we ventured outdoors. Well, Carolyn headed outdoors and I happily followed her until she made it clear that my presence wasn't required. Perhaps she needed the little girls room.

The inside of the house had been thoroughly explored, except the attic, which I had originally avoided. The house was pretty ancient, and the shoddy flooring in attics have a tendency to rot over time, not to mention that there could be all sorts of eight-legged freaks up there.

Yeah, I can stand face-to-face with a horde of undead, but spiders? Yick. That's where I draw the line.

On the plus side, I managed to locate a serviceable sharpening steel from the depths of the kitchen. My combat knife, as well as the cleaver I'd stolen, were sharpened in no time, leaving both with a wickedly sharp edge. I still wasn't brilliantly equipped for the impending return into the zombie-filled world. I'd once had a ruddy good baseball bat, and before that a masterfully carved snooker cue. Knives were all good and well, but they left a lot to be desired in the range department.

Food and water supplies are alarmingly low, as is my morale and motivation. This abandoned cabin looks like an enchanted palace compared to the wild outdoors, and the day that we are forced back into the wild is quickly coming, what with the severe lack of provisions and all.

I let my mind wander for a time as I waited for Carolyn to return from her outdoor adventures. The temptation to join her was ever present, but even I can tell when someone needs some time to spend in their own personal space. Personally, I was a little sick of my own personal space, and craved to share it with anyone, as long as they were living, and liked me at least a little.

Most of the activities I did that day ranged between painfully boring, and just painful. It was between those subjects that I found myself drawn to the upper floor of the house. There was a hatch-type-door carved into the hallways ceiling, an almost camouflaged entry into the houses attic.

Perhaps it was my imagination, or a trick of the wind against the creaky cabin, but I was almost certain that I could make out the shuffling of footsteps on wooden floorboards, and they sounded human-shaped. Not the tiny teetering that a mouse makes as it crawls through a buildings infrastructure.

As much as I wanted to investigate the dark, dusty attic space above the abandoned cabin in the middle of the woods, Carolyn chose that exact moment to climb back through the window and into my life.

I intercepted her just as she marched into the kitchen and slammed two miscellaneous tins of preserved food on the counter.

Never before had spaghetti hoops made me feel so good inside.

The surprises didn't stop there, because as the hoops toasted above an open flame, Carolyn began to speak.

She had discovered an overgrown road which led to three more cabins. They differed vastly from our own, being more dilapidated, infested and boasting an array of tinned goods. Carolyn had grabbed what little she could carry and headed back as fast as her feet could carry her, all the while remaining unseen by the lingering undead.

And she hadn't fucked up once, so she had done a better job than I would have.

It stung a little, I guess. The old fashioned gentleman inside of me felt slighted. Not too long ago it would have been unheard of for the woman of the house to provide for the man. But things had changed, and I don't mean in an equality way, because politics has taken a step backwards recently. I meant things had changed in the way that human beings had now joined the endangered species list.

I thanked Carolyn for her efforts, but she only shrugged and turned away, reverting back to her lonesome self. I briefly considered visiting the other cabins myself, but my judgement was clouded with needless bravado, so I deemed it untrustworthy and discarded the idea.

Instead I suggested to Carolyn that we could return together in the morning, and take whatever we could get our hands on. Hopefully there would be enough supplies to keep us fed until Starcross. I smiled at that. Starcross, I said the word with enough pomp and circumstance to rally a brigade of fighting men into a war frenzy, but Carolyn just nodded at my suggestion without looking up, immune to my persuasive charm.

It's very possible, I thought sadly to myself, that my charisma had been stored in my right earlobe, which now lay detached and abandoned in a muddy puddle, never to be seen again.

That thought kept me depressed for the rest of the day, and no ammount of solo games of I-Spy would yank me away from the inner turmoil. I'm sure it will no doubt niggle at my self worth until I fall asleep.

At least in my dreams I still have both ears, as well as a straight nose and, oddly enough, a trumpet made out of carrot.

Luigi out.


	31. 18042015

Hi guys. I've decided to discontinue this story on this website. The story is now finished on my laptop, but the latest drafts have a different structure to the story on this website, so chapters I upload now may become a bit confusing. I am beginning my third re-write of the story, which focuses on character depth and further grammar checking (I am terrible with grammar).

SO, if you have come this far and you wish to continue, please send me a message and I will link you to an online PDF, which will have latest version of the finished story.

I hope to finish these re-writes by the end of 2015, and I can start talking to publishers, as well as begin writing more books in this apocalyptic universe.

Thank you SO SO SO much for reading. Every review, message, follow, etc, has been a motivation to keep writing, and I'd never imagined having 20,000+ views on something I'd written, so you readers are pretty magnificent.

Luigi out.


End file.
